Children of Time, Ep 10: Dynamics of a Point
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: "Holmes needs to return to his work, to remember what makes him feel proud! He needs a case." But when the Great Detective takes on one of the most significant cases in the Canon, the stakes rapidly go far beyond a mere international crisis... Part 1 of the season finale.
1. About Face

**Authors' Note:** Welcome to the finale, everyone - we're so thrilled to finally be here, and that you wonderful readers have stuck with us all the way! Those who haven't, we strongly advise you to go back and catch up, or there'll be a lot of points in this four-parter that simply won't make any sense. Yes, you heard right, folks: _four_ -parter. Prepare yourselves for huge amounts of cliff-hangers... *evil rubbing of hands*

As we mentioned earlier, some of the scenes will be rather graphic, but skipping over them hopefully won't affect your understanding of the plot, and we'll be rating them appropriately: V=Violence/blood, D=Drugs, S=Sexual themes, L=Language (although given that our heroes are Victorian gentlemen, there won't be much call for the last one!)

Enjoy, and please review!

 **==Chapter 1==**

 **About Face**

 _"What a terrible feeling to love someone and not be able to help them."_

\- Jennifer Niven, All The Bright Places

1895\. For those of us who believe in Sherlock Holmes, this is a magical year. This is the year after Holmes returned to London and to Watson, after faking his death for three years. This is the peak of the Great Detective's career, the Golden Years. It was immortalised in a beloved poem:

 _Here, though the world explode, these two survive_

This is the year from which the Doctor spirited Holmes and Watson away to be his Companions, traveling through Time and Space with him in the TARDIS. This is the year to which he returned them, and two newcomers: Watson's new wife, Sally, and me. This is the year in which everything went right, and then everything went so very wrong.

 _And it is always 1895_.

* * *

The Doctor was working under the console when Watson entered the room, recognisable by his limp. "Ah, Doctor—do you have a minute?"

The Time Lord hadn't quite been keeping track, but he was pretty sure that the honeymoon should have lasted at least another twenty-four hours or so. What was Watson doing out here? Apprehensive, the Doctor looked out and felt his hearts sink—his human colleague's expression was regretful but determined. In humans, that was never a good sign, particularly after a disaster such as the visit to 1989. "'Course…" He pulled himself out and up, but couldn't make himself look Watson in the eye, too afraid of what he might find there.

"Sally and I have been talking things over," Watson said slowly, "and we're both of the opinion that…" He took a deep breath; "that it is time for us to go home."

 _Oh, God… oh, God, no_ … The Doctor took a deep, shaky breath and nodded slowly, still not meeting Watson's eyes. "I tried," he said hoarsely, aware that didn't quite make sense and not caring. "I didn't… didn't mean…" He walked slowly over to the jumpseat, sank into it, and covered his face with his hands. "Oh, God…"

The next moment, Watson was at his side, gently gripping his shoulder. "I know, Doctor," he said kindly. "I know you've tried to help him; but you can't, not like this."

The Time Lord looked back up in desperation. He had to fix this, he couldn't abandon Sherlock, _he needed them_. "But I was! He even stopped using cocaine!"

Watson closed his eyes for a moment, and the Doctor knew with certainty that he was not going like what the man was about to say. "I'm sorry, Doctor, I hate to say it… because I am aware that he hasn't used since we left—" he smiled kindly but sadly—"and believe me, I am immensely thankful for that!" His smile faded. "But haven't you wondered why it's been so easy for him to give up the needle?"

Shrinking in dread, the Doctor shook his head mutely.

"The Bliss patches on New Earth, the plasmavore's addiction to drunkards—those were key moments of epiphany for Holmes, and I don't regret them, not in the least. Even so, if we'd gone straight home after Paris, it would still have taken a huge effort for him to break the habits of half a lifetime—" Watson's tone turned grave—"and I'm afraid, Doctor, that that trial is still to come when we go home… because his original addiction hasn't been cured, just temporarily replaced. He's using our travels with you as a substitute."

The Doctor bowed his head, chest aching sharply. After a few moments, he gave a despairing laugh. "I was going to take you home after Polaris 7, but Holmes and I talked each other out of it."

Watson sighed softly, exasperatedly. "I wish I'd known. But either way, Doctor, we can't stay any longer." Anxiety crept into his voice. "Holmes's depression is deepening rapidly. He's not eating, he barely sleeps… I'll admit, this isn't exactly new behaviour, but now he has you to aid and abet him! As for Sally, he can hardly even look at her now, let alone speak to her in a civil fashion—and yes, I have worked out why, Doctor, it's only too obvious!" His voice quietened. "I can't even remember the last time he laughed."

The Doctor looked up again slowly. "Please... one last trip? The girls haven't really _been_ anywhere - it's not fair to them!"

Watson exhaled heavily in frustration. "And isn't that how this whole mess got started, Doctor? One more trip—oh dear, that didn't turn out so well; let's have another to make up for it—what a surprise, that one turned out even worse; time to go home—goodness me, we seem to have been thrown off course... This is what happens with you, Doctor, over and over, although heaven knows you never do it on purpose! How the next 'one last trip' might end, I shudder to think… and if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not take the chance this time—not when I am _trying_ to get my wife and best friend home in one piece!"

The Doctor's eyes were wide, shocked speechless.

"We're not your pets, Doctor," Watson continued earnestly, "none of us. Please—" he spread his hands—"let me take Holmes back to Baker Street, while there's still something left of him! He needs to return to his work, to remember what makes him feel proud! He needs a case." He fell silent.

The Doctor wanted to protest further—of _course_ , they weren't his pets; they were his _friends_ and he would _miss_ them. But Watson was otherwise… mostly right… and determined. It would be selfish to hold on to him against his will, and he would not go without Holmes. Poor Holmes—the Doctor had failed Companions before, of course, but this failure seemed to sting quite harshly.

Taking a shuddering breath, the Time Lord rose slowly and moved over to the console. He set the time for the morning after they left 1895, wordlessly begging his girl not to mess this one up. He said nothing to Watson, trusting that the man understood his actions. He didn't trust himself to speak—he'd break down if he did.

He ventured a glance at Watson to see the man sag in relief. "Thank you," he said softly, sincerely, and left.

The Doctor gripped the console tightly, bowing his head, trying to will away the tears.

* * *

True to his word, the Doctor put out a ship-wide call on the intercom, and the four Companions were soon gathered together in the control room. Holmes was the last to arrive, and for once, Watson felt relieved that the detective was still avoiding making eye contact - he wasn't looking forward to the moment when Holmes worked out who was really to blame for their sudden departure.

The sorrow in the Doctor's eyes deepened when he saw Holmes, but clasped his hands together behind his back and spoke with his usual brisk cheerfulness. "All right, so! Our next stop is 1895 - specifically, where and when I picked up the boys." He nodded at the two men, particularly Holmes, whose eyes were starting to narrow. "Your timeline needs a bit of a helping hand at this point, sort of like keeping a clock wound up: time for you fellas to take on another case. After I've dropped you off, I'll take the TARDIS over to Cardiff to refuel over the Rift - been a long time since the old girl's had that, and she needs it. When she's done, which shouldn't be more than a week, roughly... I'll come back and pick up Beth and take her home."

Beth froze, eyes wide. "You promised," she said quietly.

The Doctor shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Beth, really. But I have to - you have your own timeline to live, you know."

"Zed the timeline -" Beth said sharply, "you _promised_."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor repeated quietly, and Watson's heart ached at the heartbreak in the alien's voice.

Beth stared accusingly at the Doctor a moment longer, then turned on her heel and strode out of the room. The poor girl...

"Beth..." Sally glanced back at the Doctor, looking torn.

Watson gave his wife's hand an encouraging squeeze, then released her so that she could go after Beth. He was so proud of her, he knew she would have liked to stay longer, too. He'd have to take her on a good, long honeymoon once they were properly settled in at home.

The Doctor closed his eyes, exhaling heavily; Holmes, on the other hand, startled both doctors by saying brightly, "Well, I'd best retrieve my overcoat, then! I don't imagine the weather has altered much since we left."

Watson stared helplessly after Holmes, tension writ large across the detective's shoulders as he walked out. The doctor looked over at his colleague ruefully. "Well, that went well!" At least they'd been spared the explosion he was half-expecting.

"How well did you think it was going to go?" the Doctor answered quietly, turning to go after Holmes.

"I don't know," Watson murmured wearily. Maybe it was a side effect of travelling with the Doctor, but it felt like a long time since he'd last been certain of anything.

* * *

Holmes stood in his bedroom doorway, gloomily surveying the various souvenirs and garments that lay scattered about everywhere. Should he bother packing, he wondered vaguely, or just leave it all as another shrine to a lost Companion, like Miss Tyler's room? It wasn't as if he'd brought any luggage with him, anyway; all he and Watson had had when they first became passengers were the clothes they stood up in.

It had only taken the stunned detective a moment to realise that they were leaving the TARDIS for good - did the Doctor really think he was deceiving anyone with his 'helping hand' nonsense? And Holmes had a good idea of who was responsible for that decision as well - Watson had been far too quiet during the Doctor's announcement. Of course he'd known that their time would be up eventually, but surely it didn't have to be this soon, there was still so much to see... He didn't blame Beth in the least for being angry at only being allowed one trip.

"Sherlock?"

Holmes tensed as the Doctor's voice broke in on his thoughts, turning to face the Time Lord. "Yes?"

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I just..." The Doctor shook his head helplessly. "I can't justify it anymore. You've got your own life to live... and it'll probably be much better off without me in it."

For a moment, Holmes felt like the TARDIS had removed the floor from under him. "And is that _your_ professional opinion, Doctor -" he asked quietly, eyes searching the Time Lord's face, "or Watson's?"

The Doctor didn't flinch this time, his voice earnest. "Mine. Same song as before, different day."

Holmes nodded stiffly. Of course, doctors had to stick together, didn't they? "I see. Let me know when we arrive." He turned away again, now badly needing to be alone in his room one last time, especially since 221B was about to become more crowded than it had ever been before.

"I didn't say you're completely out of this game." The Doctor's voice had turned serious. "Torchwood is still out there - and they know _far_ more about you than they should."

Holmes gave him a mirthless smirk over his shoulder - as if he didn't know that already. "They can get in line, then."

"They know about _Tibet_ , Sherlock -" the Doctor said sharply, "and Bernice said they'd been watching you closely ever since. I don't think their interest in you is _just_ because of me."

Holmes merely looked bored, entirely unimpressed by the alien's theatrics this time. "Well, no doubt Mycroft has sent them a pointed memo – but as I said, Doctor: they wouldn't be the first." And he walked into his room, letting the door hiss closed behind him.

* * *

Sally tapped lightly on Beth's bedroom door, which hissed open. The teenager was sitting on the bed with her still-unopened duffel; she must not have even had a good chance yet to unpack. "Beth… are you okay?"

Sally reddened when the younger woman turned to her with a Look, though strained, as if trying not to cry. "Okay, stupid question," Sally amended hastily. "I know you're not, but…" She approached the bed; "is there anything I can do?"

"Not really," Beth said bleakly.

Deciding to bite the bullet, Sally sat down beside her. She might not know Beth very well, but she had to try to help her. Especially since it was painfully clear that no one else would. She couldn't blame the girl for being upset, either: this whole thing wasn't fair to her at all. "Beth, I'm so sorry. I… I wanted to stay, too."

Beth's face twisted—the tears were going to come very soon. "Then why…?" she said plaintively, then reddened.

Sally bit her lip. "Because John's worried… and I think he's right: Sherlock's been away from Baker Street long enough, maybe too long. And John... he hasn't said anything, but I can tell he's homesick, too. I can't ask him to stay here any longer, just so we two can have a few more adventures!"

Beth took a shuddering breath and whispered, "It's not _fair_ …"

"I know," Sally said quietly. Poor kid—her one trip in the TARDIS had been a positive disaster. But maybe… She nudged Beth with her elbow. "Hey – maybe when the Doctor gets back again, you can ask him to take a detour? A week's a long time." And she'd learned from John that the Doctor really didn't do well without companions, even for one day. There must be a lot of pain in his past…

Beth gave her a sad and unconvinced smile. "Maybe." Still, even if the Doctor agreed to that… would it still be fun for Beth with just her and the Doctor? No one else? No Sherlock… The girl's smile vanished altogether as she shook her head miserably. "It was hard enough persuading him to come back for me at all."

Sally couldn't think of what to say to that, so she put her arm around Beth instead, hugging her gently. She wished they could keep going. She wanted not only to see more of the universe but also get to know Beth better. This girl, barely out of school, heart on her sleeve… this girl was special.

Beth leaned into her embrace a little. "I think," she said quietly, slowly, "I think he only did it because he owed me."

Sally tightened her hold slightly. "What happened?" She'd been wondering what a girl as young as Beth must have been could have done that the Doctor would come back for her later in her life like he did.

"I, um, I saved him. Twice…" Beth gave Sally a halting and probably condensed narrative: aliens seeking out the Doctor to steal his lifespan, the Doctor becoming human and the three time-travellers becoming school teachers, the Doctor's watch, the aliens infiltrating Beth's school… Beth choked up completely when she came to the most horrifying part of her story, the murder of her best friend. "They… they just _replaced_ her… c-completely… she was gone and this–this _thing_ used her _voice_ …"

Sally's breath caught, feeling sick. "Oh, Beth!" she whispered past the lump in her throat. She might have lost her best friend, too, but at least she knew that Kathy had had a good, long life with her new family. Kathy had been content, and that had been a small comfort. Beth didn't even have that. Chloe's life had simply been snuffed out.

Beth wiped at her tears and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Then the police arrested Mr. Smith, Sherlock, and Dr. Watson by accident, and I, um…" She blushed past her tears. "I kind of had to get them out of that fix. Then…" Her voice quietened. "Then we had to convince Mr. Smith to let the Doctor come back... but he had to die for that to happen. He did, and... the Doctor took care of the Family." She rubbed at her eyes with both hands and laughed mirthlessly. "Then, um, he... told me some things... about Chloe... and I made him promise to come back for me." Looking down, she muttered, "Shouldn't've done that."

"Oh, honey." Sally put both arms around Beth, hugging her tightly, remembering her taking the blame for Jeremy Brett's kidnapping. Beth's breath caught, and she hugged Sally back. "It _wasn't_ your fault, okay? I've got a feeling Torchwood would have caught up with us anyway."

Beth nearly choked as she said, "But it's pointless now…" She gave another empty laugh. "Might as well not have come back for me at all."

Sally's heart ached. "Don't say that," she murmured. Even if it was just for a little while, she was glad to have had Beth's friendship. She didn't deceive herself: it was going to be difficult for her to make new friends in Victorian London. Keeping her past a secret as she undoubtedly must would make her life always a little bit lonely.

Beth looked up, silent, eyes dull and red-rimmed, then back down again, and hugged Sally a little tighter.

No, nothing about this was fair at all.

* * *

After a quick visit to the kitchen with Beth for some last-minute ice cream (no Rocky Road in 1895!), Sally regretfully excused herself and headed back to her own room. John was anxious to be off, and she still needed to pack, although she had little in the way of suitable clothing for the time she was soon to call home. Maybe she should ask the TARDIS if there were any spare outfits in the wardrobe room.

The Doctor rounded the corner and saw Sally headed for her room. Oh, thank goodness—he'd been starting to worry that he wouldn't have a moment alone with her before they landed. "Sally?" He hurried forward. "I, ah, have something I wanted to give you. Wedding slash housewarming gift."

Sally blinked, startled out of her thoughts. "Oh." She gave him an uncertain smile, still feeling a little off-balance from his sudden appearance. "Ah, thank you." She shook her head, blushing – well, that had sounded truly grateful! "I'm sorry, it's just..." She shrugged awkwardly, gaze shifting involuntarily towards Beth's bedroom door.

The Doctor caught the eye movement and thought he probably knew what door Sally was glancing at. He coloured slightly—he certainly deserved no apologies. "No, it's okay. I just thought, well..." He pulled a sleek smartphone from his pocket—late 21st century model, actually his human self's phone. Phones by that time surpassed the capabilities of any laptop Sally could ever have used in her own era, and he was certain she'd love it. "You might enjoy a bit of an upgrade from your own phone. It's solar-rechargeable, so it'll pretty much never die, and it has Internet and everything. Little bit of the future."

Sally's mouth fell open – the phone the Doctor was holding looked even more advanced than Beth's, almost like something out of Star Trek! Speechless, she looked up at the Time Lord, wide-eyed expression asking the question for her: _Seriously?_ He was actually going to let her take future tech into the aftermath of the Industrial Revolution? She hadn't even planned on taking her old phone with her; assuming she could have kept it charged, who was she going to call?

He shrugged but appreciated her reaction. "Well, I don't think it's going to be terribly easy for you to adjust, and I thought this could help with that. You can journal and take photos and read—it's got all the tricks. Did some jiggery-pokery on it, and it can call any other phone throughout all of Time and Space, as long as the TARDIS exists. She's the satellite that'll make it work. Her number is on it, too—I think you'll be needing that someday."

His last words had Sally giving him an odd look – what did he know that she didn't? Well, knowing the Doctor, she was probably better off _not_ knowing for the moment; and she had to admit, it was comforting to think that the Doctor might come back one day. Maybe she hadn't gotten to know the Time Lord as well as John, but she would still miss him.

She accepted the phone with a smile and slipped it into her pocket, then moved closer and gave him a hug. "Thank you." Poor man, it was clear he was going to miss all of them just as much, he looked even more forlorn than Beth.

Surprised but grateful, he returned the hug. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. "I didn't want it to end like this. There was so much I wanted you girls to see." So much more he wanted the boys to see—more wonders in worlds beyond their own.

Sally was suddenly glad he couldn't see her face right now. Trying to keep the wistful note out of her voice, she murmured back, "Hey, it's okay," then looked up at him with a teasing grin. "I'm pretty sure we can find enough trouble of our own to get into." John and Sherlock definitely would, and there was no way she was going to let those two have all the fun!

The Doctor couldn't help grinning back. "Oh, I'm sure you will." Life was never going to be dull at 221B, that was for sure! "Um, which reminds me, in a roundabout way... has John ever told you about Fixed Points?"

Sally nodded thoughtfully. "He told me about your adventure with Shakespeare." She honestly couldn't understand the sheer ingratitude of people like Torchwood – God only knew how many times the Doctor had saved the human race from being wiped out altogether! "From how he described it, it sounds a bit like a power line: you can have some fluctuation in your timeline, as long as you've got strong supports in the right places."

Well, she'd grasped the concept pretty well. "That's a good way of describing it. Fixed Points in Time are those supports—they have to happen. They always have to happen, no matter what else you might change in the timeline. And, ah, Sherlock and John have... quite a lot of Fixed Points in their timelines."

Her eyes widened, mouth forming an 'O'. "You're talking about the published cases, aren't you?" All _sixty_ of them – no wonder John hadn't wanted to know any of the later titles!

The Doctor nodded. "Yeah. Now, there might be some deviation, some poetic license in there, I'm sure there is, but they have to happen. You're from the future—you know what an impact those stories have on history and literature, even if Sherlock and John are no longer seen as real people."

She couldn't help laughing at that. "Do I ever!" She'd often wondered how John felt about that: he and Sherlock being thought of as just figments of somebody else's imagination, even if people did idolise their characters. Sally sobered as she parted from the Doctor and entered her bedroom, thoughts returning for the hundredth time to another well-loved character... one whom she would always secretly regret not being able to meet. The cases being Fixed Points, did that also apply to the past events mentioned in them, like Mary's death?

Sally hadn't yet found the courage to ask John exactly how it had happened, not wanting to bring up painful memories during what was supposed to be a joyful time for them both – but in all honesty, she wasn't even sure she wanted to know any more than was already in 'The Empty House'. Thank God John would be putting so few details of his second marriage into his later works. Artistic license or not, Sally's fate wasn't written in black and white for future readers to gossip about – her life, although intertwined with John's, would remain a mystery, and that was just fine by her.

* * *

 _Thursday, 21st November, 1895_

 _8:45 am_

The TARDIS landed in the mews behind Baker Street, directly behind 221B. The Doctor glared briefly at his own front door. "Well, go on, you lot," he said gently. "I'll see you in a week or so."

Beth walked past him without so much as glancing at him, still looking angry. She was also dressed rather like one of the Baker Street Irregulars by now, albeit a _very_ well-kept Irregular. _Oh, Beth, honey… I'm so sorry. I wanted you to have a better time._

Sally, on the other hand, was wearing a dress, coat and hat appropriate to her middle-class status, and looking quite lovely, really. She glanced sadly at the Doctor, who returned the look with a nod, then glanced expectantly at her husband. Watson smiled back, traces of sadness around his eyes but looking more proud and excited than anything else.

Holmes walked out of the TARDIS without looking at anyone, taking his keys out of his overcoat pocket, headed for his own back door. The Doctor would have given anything to run after him and ask for forgiveness and for another chance.

Watson carried two suitcases full of clothes donated from the TARDIS. Heaven knew Sally needed late Victorian dresses more than the Doctor did. Before moving on, Watson hesitated, blushing and looking deeply remorseful. The Doctor looked down and busied himself with the console—if he cried at all, and he felt as though he might, he was going to hide it. "Doctor... what I said earlier… I believe I may have been overly hasty in my choice of words."

 _Really? I would never have guessed. John, of course I want what's best for you, but I also don't want you to leave—you're_ **family**... After a few moments, the Doctor pulled himself together enough to murmur, "Have a good life, John."

"Doctor, be careful, all right?" Watson said abruptly, earnestly. "We want _you_ back in one piece, too."

He must be thinking of what the Rift matter did at Niagara Falls. The Time Lord sighed. "The Rift isn't dangerous to the TARDIS, Watson, all right? Not like that." He patted his girl. "We'll be fine."

"Thank you for everything, Doctor," Sally said softly.

The Doctor looked up then, expression softening. Looking at Sally always put him strongly in mind of someone else he knew… And she was brilliant, herself—it was no wonder Watson had fallen so hard for her. "You're very welcome… Mrs. Watson." That elicited a blushing smile from her. "Thank _you_."

Watson grinned affectionately. "See you next week, Doctor." His tone turned innocent. "Christmas at the latest." He took Sally's hand and walked out of the TARDIS into the fog-filled back street.

The Doctor shook his head and risked a glance at Beth, who was still standing by the door and looking a bit awkward herself. "Beth," he said quietly, "I know I shouldn't ask you this… but could you please keep an eye on Sherlock? He's going to do something stupid—I just know it."

Sighing, she looked at him frankly. The poor kid—he only wished he could try to help get her what she wanted so badly. "Doctor, did you think you had to ask?"

His lips twitched at the all-too-familiar rejoinder. "S'ppose not. Take care of yourself, too."

She gave him a slow half-salute, then stepped out into 1895. He swallowed hard as she did, closed the doors after her from the console, and took the TARDIS back into the Vortex.

* * *

 **Sky:** Ow, ow, _ow_. Believe me, this was _not_ a fun chapter to write. The very first scene alone hurt like crazy, and by the end of the chapter, it feels like everybody's the loser and no one the winner.

 **Ria:** A couple of these scenes were last-minute additions, but they were just as painful, especially Beth and Sally's. I think Beth's right: if she hadn't insisted, the Doctor really wouldn't have come back for her, the guilt he felt over her losing her best friend would have been too much. As it is, he's hardly spent any quality time with Beth one-on-one (although to be fair, that does get more difficult with multiple companions). I also have a sneaking suspicion about where he might have disappeared to after the wedding. Seeing Watson and Sally so happy must have been difficult for him, too, such a short time after sharing his memories of Rose with Bernice. *hugs him*

Stay tuned for the next chapter, in which the Companions discover that returning to the slow path has challenges of its own...


	2. Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

**==Chapter 2==**

 **Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast**

" _Being a detective isn't all about torture and murder and monsters. Sometimes it gets truly unpleasant... The fate of the world may depend on whether or not you can bring yourself to visit your relatives."  
_ ― Derek Landy

Watson was pleasantly surprised to see that Holmes was waiting for the rest of them by the back door, rather than simply heading inside. The detective was even looking – dared he say it? – half-excited, half-nervous at being home again. Well, they had been away for over six months, from their point of view.

The doctor gave his friend a grin, allowing himself to hope that their coming home might already be making a difference. "Shall we?"

Taking a quiet, deep breath, Holmes produced his keys, unlocked the door and stepped into the back passage, Watson ushering the girls inside and bringing up the rear.

The detective's nostrils flared at the old, familiar jumble of scents: wood smoke and floor wax, carbolic soap from the nearby scullery, lavender water in the back bedroom washstand... but all of it predominated by the savoury aroma of coffee and eggs. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Sally exchanged looks with Beth, both wide-eyed and nervous. Well, good grief, Sally was about to actually meet her new _landlady_.

An older woman's voice drifted down the hall from the kitchen. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, good morning! Is Dr. Watson with you? You might have sent word you'd be back in time for breakfast—" she appeared in the kitchen doorway—"I would have…" She stopped short, eyes widening at the sight of the four of them. "Now, what on earth?" She hastened forward, frowning apparently in consternation.

Sally stared at her in something like awe and open curiosity. Mrs. Hudson could not have been older than sixty, if that, short and matronly and silver-haired. She didn't bear as strong a resemblance to Rosalie Williams as John and Sherlock did David Burke and Jeremy Brett, but she had to say that the Granada casting was uncanny. She wondered if the Doctor could explain it.

Watson set the cases down, beaming from ear to ear. "Mrs. Hudson!" Dear heavens, he hadn't realised until that moment just how much he'd missed the fierce old mother hen.

Holmes stared as the doctor came forward and enfolded the landlady in a bear hug, all but lifting her off the ground. He had to admit it, though: he'd missed Mrs. Hudson, too, even experiencing the tiniest pang of envy at Watson's complete lack of self-consciousness.

Sally fought back a smile as Mrs. Hudson let out a squawk of surprise and held herself stiffly until John released her, though her hand did move up to pat his shoulder in an instinctive-looking maternal gesture. Blushing furiously, the landlady drew herself up and straightened her cap, obviously _trying_ to look outraged and not quite succeeding. "Now, _really_ , Doctor, what _is_ the meaning of all this?" She turned to her other lodger, and Sally would have bet that her arched eyebrows surpassed Sherlock's best by a mile. "Mr. Holmes, perhaps you'd care to explain, since Dr. Watson seems to have gone mad? Who, pray, are these two young ladies?"

"Mrs. Hudson..." Watson took Sally's hand and drew her forward before Holmes could answer; "please allow me to introduce..." He put his arm around her shoulders, greatly relishing this first opportunity to show off his new bride; "Mrs. Sally Watson..." His voice softened, filled anew with wonder as he said the words aloud: "my wife."

Mrs. Hudson's mouth fell open. "Your..." she began faintly, then put a hand to her mouth, wide eyes growing moist. "Well, bless my soul..." All at once, she seemed to snap out of her daze, and embraced Sally warmly, beaming. "Welcome, my dear, welcome to this house!"

It was Sally's turn to be surprised—Mrs. Hudson was clearly more than just a landlady to John and Sherlock. She reminded Sally of her gran. Touched, the younger woman returned the hug, murmuring, "Thank you."

"Oh, to think I should have lived to see the day, and—" Mrs. Hudson interrupted herself, turning to John; "Doctor, you never even mentioned you were courting!" She tsked, shaking her head in fond exasperation at Sally and Beth. "Just like a man!"

Beth grinned outright, no doubt loving this.

Sally's case of nerves overcome, she smiled. "You mustn't blame him for it, ma'am—it was an… _interesting_ courtship, to say the least."

"Now, that I can well believe!" Holmes tensed as Mrs. Hudson turned to Beth next, eyeing her unusual clothing slightly askance; but the woman merely inquired kindly, "And you, my dear?" She looked pointedly over her shoulder, eyes twinkling: "Since these two young rogues clearly haven't a head between them for proper etiquette at the moment!" Well, really - these were hardly normal circumstances, and certainly not his fault!

Beth's smile turned shy. "Just a friend from the States. Elizabeth—" oh, zed, she hadn't even thought of a cover story or a different surname yet!—"Smith." She held out her hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Hudson."

She was certain the landlady noticed her brief hesitation, but she said nothing about it. Mrs. Hudson simply took Beth's hand in both of hers, wringing it warmly. "A pleasure to meet _you_ , my dear." She ushered Beth and Sally both towards the kitchen. "Now, come along, and we'll get you settled in. Have either of you breakfasted yet?"

Watson smiled, profoundly relieved at Mrs. Hudson's taking both girls under her wing, and so quickly, too. "It's good to be home," he murmured.

Holmes was kept from having to respond by Mrs. Hudson stopping suddenly. "Oh goodness, I'd almost forgotten -" She produced an envelope from her apron pocket. "Mr. Holmes, a telegram arrived for you this morning."

Holmes took it, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "What time was this?"

Mrs. Hudson's lips pursed, and Holmes realised with some chagrin that he had neglected to thank her. "Half past eight -" Her voice became stern; "which reminds me, Mr. Holmes, the clockmaker will be calling round in an hour." She slanted a severe eyebrow at him. "There isn't anything you'd like to tell me before he arrives?"

Holmes looked at her oddly, exchanging a questioning glance with Watson. "Not that I recall."

Watson shook his head, equally bemused. "Neither of us has touched your clock, Mrs. Hudson, I promise you." He gave her his best winning smile. "It is an antique – perhaps it simply needs cleaning?"

Mrs. Hudson looked far from being won over. "We shall see," she sniffed, then turned and escorted the girls away without another word. Sally smiled at Watson over her shoulder, and Beth shrugged and gave a little wave before disappearing into the kitchen.

* * *

Still bewildered, Watson turned to Holmes with a slight shrug. "Who's the telegram from?"

Holmes was already tearing open the envelope, his eyebrows shooting upwards as he read. "Well, well!"

"Holmes, don't keep me in suspense!" Watson pleaded. Some things really never changed, did they?

Holmes handed him the telegram. "The clockmaker won't be the only visitor this morning: Mycroft is coming round."

"Mycroft?" A wide-eyed Watson took the slip of paper, which read: _Must see you over Cadogan West. Coming at once - Mycroft._ "What could possibly be monumental enough to bring your brother here?" A planet might as well leave its orbit!

Holmes's brow was deeply furrowed. "Well, obviously someone - or some _thing_ \- called Cadogan West. Does the name mean anything to you?"

Watson shook his head; the name did sound vaguely familiar, although for the life of him, he couldn't have said why. "The newspaper pile upstairs might have something."

Holmes's eyes widened. "Assuming Mrs. Hudson hasn't already disposed of them." He hurried off through the kitchen after the women.

"I hope not!" Tucking the telegram into his coat pocket, Watson hastily gathered the bags again and followed, sending silent thanks heavenward - it appeared that his prayers had just been answered. For Holmes's sake, he hoped the detective would find this case as absorbing as Mycroft seemed to believe he would.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson ushered the girls through the kitchen and up the hall, and clicked her tongue as they passed the stately old grandfather clock, a forbidding glint in her eye. Sally barely noticed, gazing around her in wonder. The immortalised 221B… the home in which her husband had spent ten years of his life… it was beautiful. She was certain that Beth was quite satisfied to note that it bore a strong resemblance to the Granada set.

Mrs. Hudson led the way upstairs (up the seventeen steps, that is), shaking her head as they neared the closed sitting room door. "My apologies, ladies: I had intended to return the sitting room to a more respectable state this morning." She sighed resignedly, but without real regret. "Such is life, when one has two madcaps as lodgers!" Her eyes twinkled affectionately.

Beth giggled.

Sally smiled. "It's all right, Mrs. Hudson—I'm sure I've seen far worse."

Beth grinned. "I can guarantee _I_ have: I have a big family."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "All the same, I hope the doctor has warned you both of what it can be like to live under the same roof as Mr. Holmes!"

Sally and Beth glanced at each other and laughed.

"Oh, we _have_ read Dr. Watson's stories," Beth said, perhaps just a bit too cheekily.

"And I've seen him at work on a case—I think I have a fair idea," Sally added.

A light dawned in Mrs. Hudson's face. "Oh, that's how you and the doctor met, isn't it?" She smiled knowingly. "I might have guessed!"

Sally nodded—it was close enough to the truth—and smiled back. "John was quite the gentleman."

"It was only love at first sight," Beth muttered mischievously.

Sally turned to her and, adopting a regal tone, said, "Shush."

Beth rolled her eyes.

Mrs. Hudson gave another chuckle, climbing the last few steps to the second floor landing. "Although it still took the dear man quite some time to come to the point, I shouldn't wonder!"

"You could say that," Sally said dryly. Her wry smile faded as she reached the bedroom. "This is his room?" she said softly, almost reverently.

Mrs. Hudson gave her an understanding, maternal smile in answer. She entered and crossed the room to draw back the curtains. "I do hope the two of you will be comfortable, my dear."

Sally nodded wordlessly, moving around slowly to take in the room. It wasn't quite as spare as his flat in 2007, but she suspected that most of his books and other things were down in the sitting room, which she couldn't _wait_ to see.

Mrs. Hudson turned to Beth. "And I apologise most sincerely, Miss Smith, but you and I will also have to share a room—not the most suitable arrangement for a young lady, but it's the best I can offer without banishing Mr. Holmes to the settee." She suddenly looked as if she was considering the option.

Beth's eyes widened. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of doing that, Mrs. Hudson." Especially given his current state—banished from his own room, the Great Detective would no doubt be moodier than a displaced cat.

Mrs. Hudson nodded understandingly, but there was still a little wicked gleam in her eye. She tsked, looking towards the open bedroom door. "Now, where has the doctor got to with those cases?"

* * *

Holmes dashed up the stairs and burst into the still-untouched sitting room. "Ah!" The newspapers were still there, thank God; Mrs. Hudson had had That Look in her eye the night they left. He retrieved the stack from behind his armchair and started hunting through it, checking the front page of each paper before tossing it aside.

Watson came in and shook his head with a sigh, bending down to gather the discarded papers and check the second and third pages. "Holmes, here it is! The twentieth... ah, the day we left, Wednesday. Cadogan West was the young man who was found dead on the Underground Tuesday morning."

Holmes's eyes widened. "This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused Mycroft to alter his habits?" Not that he wouldn't be glad to see his brother again after so long away, but really, one might as well expect to meet a tram-car coming down a country lane. "And the case seemed perfectly commonplace, as I recall – I wonder..." He nodded thoughtfully at the stack of mail on the sideboard, which included that morning's paper. "Perhaps some fresh facts have come to light."

Watson removed the paper from the pile. "Here we are. Inquest: Arthur Cadogan West, aged twenty-seven, unmarried, clerk at Woolwich Arsenal..."

Holmes nodded. "Government employee - hence the link with Mycroft."

Watson continued reading aloud. "'He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about 7.30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system.'"

"When?"

"Let's see... six in the morning. 'It was lying wide of the metals upon the left hand side of the track as one goes eastward, at a point close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in which it runs. The head was badly crushed — an injury which might well have been caused by a fall from the train.'" Watson paused, grimacing. "'The body could only have come on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any neighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where a collector is always standing.' The railway officials are absolutely certain on that point."

"Capital." Holmes rose from the floor and snuggled down into his armchair with an inner sigh of contentment - this was just like the old days. "The case seems clear enough: the man, dead or alive, either fell or was propelled from a train. Pray continue."

"'The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body was found are those which run from west to east, some being purely Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can be stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, was travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night, but at what point he entered the train it is impossible to state.'"

Holmes tsked impatiently. "His ticket would show that, of course."

Watson looked up from the paper, smiling slightly. "Unless there was no ticket in his pockets."

Holmes arched his eyebrows. "But in my experience, it's impossible to reach the platform for a Metropolitan train without displaying a ticket. Presumably, then, the young man had one."

Watson hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps it was taken to conceal which station he came from?"

"Possibly." Holmes steepled his fingers, brow deeply furrowed. "Had he been robbed of any other possessions?"

Watson shook his head as he continued reading. "No, and there was even money left in his purse, two pounds fifteen. His cheque-book established his identity... and there was a small packet of technical papers -" He looked up, expression clearing; "positive link to Mycroft?"

Holmes had exclaimed in satisfaction at the mention of the papers. "Indeed, Watson - the chain is complete."

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

"Jupiter himself," Watson smiled, refolding the paper and starting to shift the old ones back behind Holmes's chair.

The detective's answering smile vanished as a sudden thought struck him. "Ah, Watson, perhaps you'd better go upstairs and apprise the women of the circumstances." He could well imagine what might happen if Mycroft were to encounter Beth, or even Sally at this stage! It wouldn't take half a second for his brother to deduce that the two girls were far more than they appeared.

Watson's eyes widened. "Good Lord, yes." He hurried out of the room, leaving Holmes to finish picking up the scattered papers, spirits sinking rapidly. God, what a fool he was… thinking even for a moment that things could go back to the way they were!

He'd taken such care to warn Watson about the chief hazards of travelling with the Doctor; but even returning to London in '84, Holmes hadn't been able to admit to himself what seemed so obvious now: once you stepped into the TARDIS, your old life was, to all intents and purposes, at an end - even if you survived, you could never go home again, not completely. Did the Doctor know that? Remembering the look of fear in the alien's eyes during unguarded moments, Holmes was bitterly inclined to think that he did.

The price for experiencing the wonders of the Universe: discovering that its worst horror lay in wait behind your own front door.

* * *

When the doorbell rang, Beth and Sally looked at each other, then hurried to the window, sticking to the sides to avoid being seen. A tall, heavyset gentleman stood on the doorstep, accompanied by a smaller, slighter man, who looked up for a brief moment. _Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade_. And the man with him was undoubtedly Mycroft Holmes. "Oh my gosh," Beth murmured. She snapped her head up, smiling delightedly at Sally as she realised exactly which case was about to happen. "Oh my gosh!"

Sally laughed. "What?"

Beth shook her head, still smiling. "Tell you later."

Mrs. Hudson had also crossed to the window; one look, and her eyes widened at the sight of Mycroft. Of course, she would know just how rare it was for Sherlock's older brother to visit. "Well, I never!" she breathed. "Please excuse me, ladies." She hastened out of the room.

Dr. Watson's footsteps sounded on the stairway.

Beth leaned in quickly and whispered, "November 1895, Mycroft, and Inspector Lestrade… it's 'The Bruce-Partington Plans'."

Sally's eyes widened. "Oh, _wow_."

* * *

Watson retrieved the cases that he'd left on the landing and began hauling them laboriously up the last flight, frowning in annoyance as his left shoulder gave a warning twinge. He had thought of having his old injuries treated in the TARDIS, but since returning home in perfect health might well have aroused curiosity from those who knew him, it had ultimately seemed more trouble than it was worth.

"Ah, thank you, Doctor!" Mrs. Hudson had just emerged from his room and came down to meet him, kindly taking one of the bags and leading the way back up to the landing.

Watson gave her a grateful smile as they set the cases down, massaging his shoulder, then turned hastily as Mrs. Hudson started to descend again. "Mrs. Hudson? It's Holmes's brother at the door, he's here about a case." He steeled himself to continue. "I know this sounds odd... but could I ask you not to mention either of the two young ladies for the time being?"

As he'd feared, Mrs. Hudson frowned, looking at him strangely, but then nodded slowly. "Very well." Her eyebrows were raised in the old familiar look of _We_ _ **will**_ _be discussing this later_.

"Thank you," Watson said meekly, blushing, feeling embarassingly like a naughty schoolboy under her stern gaze. He'd _meant_ to explain about the girls, but with everything else going on, there simply hadn't been time.

"Hm!" Mrs. Hudson sniffed and continued on down to the ground floor, chin raised haughtily.

Watson sighed, then turned and knocked at the bedroom door, which swung open further.

Sally smiled at the sight of him. "Hi," she said softly, coming forward to take one of the cases.

Watson smiled back, following her in with the other, then grinned when he saw Beth at the window. "I assume you already know who's at the door, then?"

Beth gave him back a grin that said _Really_? "Wouldn't be worth my salt if I didn't."

"It's a case, isn't it?" Sally looked as relieved as Watson felt. "And right away - that's wonderful!"

Watson nodded. "Quietly, now - Mycroft mustn't know you're here, it's too soon." He pulled the door to, but left it slightly ajar, all three shamelessly gathering to eavesdrop.

* * *

There was the sound of the front door opening and the murmur of voices.

Sally saw John's brow crease at the second, higher male voice, apparently unable to recognise it at this distance. "Now," he murmured, "who's the other one?"

They heard the sounds of three people ascending the stairs, one with a distinctly heavier tread than the other two.

Still grinning, Beth murmured. "That would be _my_ relative."

His eyes widened, and Sally suddenly wondered if Beth looked anything like her ancestor at all. Two hundred years _was_ a long time… She _did_ have a narrow-ish face and distinctive cheekbones, though, which Sally supposed one might need to acquire the description 'ferret-faced'. Hmm, John really was quite free, sometimes, with his descriptions.

"Sweetheart," she said, "shouldn't you go back down?"

He nodded and kissed her. "I'm so sorry about this, love." His tone turned quite remorseful. "After everything I promised you…"

Sally smiled and kissed him back, noting that Beth blushed and looked away. "It's all right, John." She didn't feel like a prisoner in her new home yet! "I need to unpack anyway and get used to things." Her hand drifted up to touch his cheek. "I'll be fine," she said softly. "Go on."

He reached up and captured her hand, squeezing it gently. "I'll let you know if we're going out." She nodded, and he left the room, closing the door behind him and descending to the sitting room.

Sally turned back to Beth once the door was closed, smile turning wicked. Some of Kathy must have rubbed off on her. "All right, you can look now."

Beth narrowed her eyes. "Shush." She looked consideringly out of the window. "Actually… I think I'm gonna leave you to your stuff."

Sally raised an eyebrow. "And go where?"

Beth flashed her a grin, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder. "Out to find the Irregulars—where else?"

* * *

 **Ria:** Dear old Mrs. Hudson – isn't she wonderful? She's one of my favourite characters in the Canon but, like the TARDIS, doesn't get nearly enough appreciation as the Team Mom. Those two are actually a lot alike when you think about it, even if the TARDIS's feelings for the Doctor aren't strictly maternal!

 **Sky:** Hear, hear! Also, I would like to mention that, yes, we're well aware of the fact that we're starting off a bit slow. We do have a large cast and every single person is faced with very different emotional issues right now. But this is a four-part finale, and for it to work, it does need to start off slow. Just trust us, and enjoy the roller-coaster we're about to put you on! :D


	3. How The World Ends

**==Chapter 3==**

 **How The World Ends**

" _Watson and Holmes are two halves of the same person… It's a brilliant creation, their friendship, and it needs both, you can't have the one without the other, it's impossible."_

– Jeremy Brett

(Authors' note: At last, we arrive at the case proper… *suspense music* To those readers who aren't familiar with the Bruce-Partington case, we dare you to match your wits against Holmes. We haven't changed whodunnit or how, and all the essential clues from the canon are in the finale, so let's see if you can solve the mystery yourselves without looking it up!)

* * *

Footsteps on the stairs, then Mrs. Hudson's knock at the sitting room door. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Show them in, Mrs. Hudson." Holmes had easily picked out Lestrade's plodding tread from the jumble - besides, who else would Mycroft bring with him on such an errand?

Mycroft appeared, looking much the same as Holmes had last seen him, although his expression was far graver. "Good morning, Sherlock." He halted a moment in the doorway, a flicker of bewildered astonishment crossing his face, too subtle for anyone but his younger brother to detect.

Holmes tensed, dismayed - what telltale signs from his travels did he have about him? If only he and Watson had had time to change clothes… Mycroft made no comment of any kind, however, merely moving further into the room to allow Lestrade entrance and struggling out of his overcoat.

"Mycroft, Inspector," Holmes nodded calmly from his armchair, now even more relieved that Beth was out of sight. "Pray be seated."

Lestrade nodded respectfully, pulling out a chair from the table, while Mycroft settled himself onto the settee. "A most annoying business, Sherlock. I extremely dislike altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty - it is buzzing like an overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the case?"

Holmes waved a hand at the morning's paper. "We've just done so."

Just then, Watson came in. "Gentlemen," he greeted amiably.

Lestrade and Mycroft nodded back, Mycroft's face echoing its earlier expression of bewildered surprise.

Holmes waved Watson towards his usual chair, swearing inwardly - although he supposed the damage had already been done. "What were the technical papers?"

"Ah, there's the point!" Mycroft turned back to his brother as Watson retrieved his notebook and pencil. "Fortunately, it has not come out. The press would be furious if it did." His voice was the solemnest Holmes had heard it in years. "The papers which this wretched youth had in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine."

Holmes listened intently as the facts were laid before him. The plans for the new submarine were the most jealously guarded of Government secrets - well, that at least limited the number of suspects. The patents were kept at at all times in an office adjoining the Arsenal, which had burglar-proof doors and windows, and locked away in a safe when not being viewed. Out of the thirty plans, ten had been stolen, but Cadogan West had been found with only seven in his pocket - the three most important papers were still missing.

"But why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft?" Holmes frowned. "You can see as far as I."

Mycroft wouldn't deny that, but he was insistent that Sherlock's greater energy was the key to solving the problem, even going so far as to suggest that his brother might see his name on the next honours list. Unimpressed, Holmes shook his head, and gestured impatiently for Mycroft to continue, who handed him a sheet of paper with further notes and a list of addresses.

Only two people were trusted with a key to the safe, both of whom were considered above suspicion. Sir James Walter, government scientist, had a watertight alibi: he had been at a friend's in London at the time of the theft. The senior clerk, Sidney Johnson, had locked up the plans in the safe that night, then apparently spent all evening at home, although that statement was corroborated only by his wife.

Of course, Cadogan West had actually been found with the plans upon his person, which marked him as the prime suspect – and yet there were a great many questions that remained unanswered. Mycroft was unable to suggest any other reason for the theft than profit, the plans easily being worth several thousand pounds. West's coming marriage would provide plausible motive, and yet West had had only a couple of pounds in his purse. He would also have needed duplicates of at least three keys to carry out the crime - the building, the office, and the safe - but his keyring had only held the keys to his own house. And as Mycroft pointed out to Lestrade, it was a very singular sort of blind for West to have been escorting his fiancée to the theater, and then to abandon her so near the office, without any explanation.

It seemed most likely that West had taken the plans to London to sell the secret, intending to have them back at Woolwich by next morning before they were missed, then was murdered on the train and thrown from it at Aldgate. His body had been found a little way past the station at which he would have needed to alight, but there could be any number of reasons for that.

"It seems perfectly clear to me," said Lestrade. "He took the papers to sell them. He saw the agent. They couldn't agree on a price. He started home again, but the agent went with him. The agent murdered him on the train, took the more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That would account for everything, wouldn't it?"

Mycroft still appeared unconvinced. "But why had he no ticket?"

"The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent's house, so he took it from West's pocket."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "Well, your theory seems to hold together, Lestrade. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans for the Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the Continent. What is there for us to do?" He suspected that even the Doctor would find it a challenge to track down one thief in the whole of Europe before the plans could be sold on. If only he'd been consulted when the body was found.

Mycroft surged to his feet, an impressive feat in itself. "To act, Sherlock—to act! All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone unturned! In all your career you have never had so great a chance of serving your country."

Holmes shrugged, not wishing to seem too eager. "Well, well!" He hesitated as an unwelcome consideration reintruded itself. "Lestrade, if you could favour me with your company for an hour or two, I will meet you at Aldgate Station at ten o'clock." Carefully avoiding eye contact with Watson, he rose from his chair and extended his hand. "Goodbye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before evening, but I warn you in advance that you have little to expect."

Mycroft nodded and shook hands. "I expected no more." His sharp eyes held his brother's gaze a few moments longer, silently promising that they _would_ be discussing other, more private matters later…

Holmes's answering look was just as implacable: _Not a chance_. "At ten, then, Lestrade."

His colleague's expression told Holmes that Lestrade had noticed the unspoken exchange, but the Inspector merely nodded and left the room. Mycroft arched a stern eyebrow at his younger brother: _Don't you_ _ **dare**_ _think you can get out of it_ ; then picked up his overcoat and followed Lestrade out.

* * *

Holmes sat back down, frowning and drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "There are times," he muttered, "when I deeply regret that Mycroft shares my eye for detail."

Watson nodded, eyes wide - he'd caught the exchange, too. "And to a greater depth, as I recall." He exhaled slowly, trying to will away the tension knotting in his shoulders.

Holmes shrugged. "Well, I've no intention of explaining to him where we've been." And without further data, his brother could hardly draw the correct conclusion on his own. "But you, Watson, will have the harder task, I fear."

Watson frowned. "And what would that be?"

Holmes tutted impatiently, giving Watson the Look he usually reserved for idiots. "The new Mrs. Watson? Quite apart from ensuring that she blends in sufficiently to this day and age, she will eventually be needing official documents, will she not?" The Doctor would hardly be willing to lend Sally the psychic paper indefinitely.

Watson closed his eyes slowly in dawning horror. "Oh... god..." He could have kicked himself for not thinking of this long before. Falsifying documents mightn't get one hanged nowadays, but it was still considered a serious offence; and how could they appeal to Mycroft for a favour of that magnitude without explaining Sally's true identity?

Holmes couldn't quite suppress a smirk at Watson's expression, but hastily concealed it. "Perhaps something for the two of you to talk over while I am at Aldgate." It might have arrived late, but a short, sharp dose of reality still wouldn't do the starry-eyed couple any harm.

Watson opened his eyes just as slowly, frowning. "Have I missed something, Holmes?" He'd assumed at first that Holmes had merely misspoken to Lestrade, but now it appeared otherwise.

Holmes arched a sardonic eyebrow. "It wouldn't be the first time, my dear fellow – but to what were you referring in particular?"

Watson pursed his lips in annoyance. "Don't toy with me, Holmes! Heaven knows I am most familiar with your disregard for common courtesies, but to automatically exclude me from this case without even consulting me on the matter..." The misgivings he'd had at the very beginning of his courtship were returning in full force and would not be quelled.

Holmes shook his head, heaving a condescending sigh. "My dear Watson - as usual, you assume too much. I was merely under the impression that your new bride would not appreciate my taking your attention away from her…"

Watson's eyes narrowed as he caught the bitter undertone in Holmes's voice. "As I thought." So much for his earlier optimism. "Holmes, that is utter nonsense, and you know it! Sally became my wife knowing full well what sort of dangers you and I regularly face under _normal_ circumstances, never mind all the fantastic adventures we've been through lately with the Doctor! If you're attempting to use my first marriage to support your reasoning, may I remind you that my prolonged absence was because..." He hesitated a moment, then rallied - there was no need to dredge up every detail of that unpleasant episode. "Well, it certainly wasn't because of any resentment on Mary's part – far from it! And how you can have the sheer nerve to accuse _Sally_ of the same, when you yourself are practically consumed by it…!"

Holmes snorted. "Really, Watson - of all the absurd conclusions you have ever arrived at, that one must surely be your magnum opus!" How typical of the doctor to mistake concern for petty jealousy - as if he could fall prey to such small-minded emotions!

Watson glared back, the detective's scornful expression not shaking his conviction in the least. "Then explain to me why you can barely string two words together in my wife's presence, civil or otherwise. Admit it, Holmes, you can hardly even bear to look at her! At least with Mary, you had the decency to conceal your hostility! I had hoped that, in time, you might come to accept her, rather than regarding her as an intruder. I even dared to believe, before your hiatus, that you had done so! Was that really the case, or mere wishful thinking on my part?"

His eyes widened at a sudden, awful suspicion: could Holmes have been... _relieved_ to hear that Mary had died? He shook his head abruptly, frowning. "No, never mind - I don't want to know." And surely his friend could never have been that heartless, not then! "But now, it seems we are right back to where we started. If anything, your conduct in that regard is even worse than before!" He spread his hands imploringly; if the three of them were to remain under the same roof for any length of time, he had to get to the bottom of this. "For God's sake, man, tell me plainly, for once: exactly what objections do you have regarding my marriage to Sally?"

Holmes's voice could have dissolved a test tube. "Nothing whatever, my dear fellow! Far be it from me to censure your choices - I merely find myself questioning your motivation. This is, after all, the second time you have tied yourself to a young lady's apron strings, less than a month after your first encounter. A pattern seems to be forming…" Apron strings – as if the first Mrs. Watson had had the least aptitude for domestic matters! It was a wonder the doctor hadn't starved to death before he finally condescended to show his face back in Baker Street.

Watson gaped in disbelief at the sneer that was twisting the detective's mouth. How... how _dared_ he?! "I fell in love, Holmes! That does actually happen to people – well, _most_ people!"

Oh, how _clever_ … "Of which I am one of the notable exceptions -" Holmes drawled back, voice heavy with sarcasm; "is that you were subtly attempting to imply?" He favoured Watson with a mocking tilt of his head. "My thanks, Doctor: you could not have paid me a greater compliment!"

The unmistakeable sincerity in the detective's voice made Watson feel like he'd just been punched in the gut. "My God," he said quietly, gorge rising in growing revulsion, "you really mean that, don't you?" He shook his head, heaving a deep, weary sigh. Enough was enough - heaven knew he'd done his best, but there was such a thing as self-respect!

"I can't do this any more, Holmes. I am sick and tired of constantly having to defend my decisions to a man who is himself barely capable of acting as a responsible adult - one who has no true concern for anyone's welfare but his own! I'd hoped that returning home might help to remind you of how to act like a human being; but now I am honestly starting to wonder if we've been away too long already." He should have heeded Holmes's warning before they even left. What he wouldn't give to have the old Sherlock Holmes back again- the loyal, compassionate friend with whom he had been honoured to share such incredible adventures... but Watson feared it would be an interminable wait before his friend returned, unless he took matters into his own hands.

He rose stiffly from his chair, forcing himself to say the words – he had to be cruel to be kind. "Perhaps when you have concluded this case, you may feel more like yourself again. In the meantime, however..." _Dear God, give me strength._ "Neither my wife nor I will stay where either one of us is unwelcome." And how he wished he could believe that Holmes even wanted _him_ here right now.

Holmes could only stare, thunderstruck, thoughts reeling. Watson... was _leaving_? Just like that?! After everything they'd been through together, his best friend was just going to... to walk out the door, as coolly as if he were taking a stroll in the park...

Watson's heart leapt to see Holmes so genuinely speechless - was it possible that he'd finally gotten through? "We'll be at the Charing Cross Hotel," he continued in a slightly softer tone, "at least until the Doctor returns. If you decide that there is more that needs to be said on the matter..."

Holmes's gaze was fixed straight ahead, knuckles white on the arms of his chair, but with a strange sense of calm settling over him - it hadn't been like this the last time, but perhaps... perhaps that wasn't surprising. He'd known _that_ Watson, or thought he had, in spite of the man's growing self-absorption, and his first departure from Baker Street had been... regrettable. But the old Watson was clearly long gone, lost somewhere in the 21st century, and to mourn his loss now would be the height of absurdity. "I believe, Dr. Watson, that you have said quite enough for both of us," he said dispassionately, willing his voice to remain steady. "I do not foresee a need for future conversation... on any subject."

Watson's heart sank once more at the growing look of sullen obstinacy in Holmes's face, then nodded grimly. "Very well." He gave the detective his coldest bow. "Pray excuse me, Mr. Holmes, I must see to the bags. We shall not impose upon your hospitality a moment longer than necessary, I assure you." Without waiting for a response, he walked out of the room and shut the door firmly behind him.

Holmes flinched, the clap of the door closing felt like a slap in the face... then he shook himself sternly, he was being a sentimental fool - and in any case, he had far more important matters to attend to! He picked up the paper Mycroft had left him, casting his eye over the list of addresses - which should he visit first after Aldgate? - but to his great annoyance, his attention kept slyly wandering back towards the closed sitting room door, ears pricked for the sound of returning footsteps...

* * *

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. "Sally?" came her husband's voice.

Sally opened the door. "John, I—" She stopped, a bad feeling forming in the pit of her stomach at the sight of John's grave face. "What's wrong?"

He looked around the room. "Where's Beth?"

"She went out to find the Irregulars. John, what's wrong?"

He frowned and said, half to himself, "We'll have to leave her a note… I'm sorry, Sally, I know we just arrived…" He took a deep breath; "but we won't be staying here tonight, after all."

Her eyes widened below her frown. "Why," she said, apprehensive.

"Because," he said grimly, "Holmes has just made it plain to me that my assistance will not be required on this case... or in the foreseeable future."

She could only focus on breathing for a moment, reeling inside. Of course, she knew that the situation between the two men had gotten bad, but she hadn't realised it was _that_ bad. "Okay."

But she wasn't okay, she didn't want to go. This was all wrong, this couldn't be happening… Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were supposed to be friends _always_ …

John took her hand and squeezed it gently. "Pack up your bag again, sweetheart—" his cheerful tone sounded quite put-on—"it looks as if we'll be having a proper honeymoon after all! We'll go to the Charing Cross Hotel until the Doctor returns from Cardiff, and then… the universe is our oyster." He moved to the closet and took out a carpet bag.

Her mind raced, trying to figure out what to say. _This_ _ **can't**_ _happen—sixty stories, the Doctor told me they were Fixed Points._ This was all wrong! On the other hand, she'd already had firsthand experience with her husband's stubbornness—she doubted he'd listen to her right now. Much less Holmes, come to that, and she'd been desperately wanting to have a good, long talk with him as well.

With a shuddering breath, she started to re-pack her things, grateful that she had an excuse to keep her head lowered… She was starting to tear up. "This is how the world ends," she murmured, "not with a bang but a whimper."

After a few minutes, they'd both finished, and John scribbled a quick note for Beth. She watched him, the reality of what was happening sinking in. They really were leaving—for good, as far as John was concerned. Well, if he thought that she would willingly go back into the TARDIS without him at least _trying_ to patch things back up with his best friend, he had another think coming. She was staying put in London, and she was going to talk with Sherlock Holmes as soon as she could. She had to try.

She put her coat back on mechanically and picked up her two bags. John folded the note, wrote Beth's name on the outside, picked up his own bag, and held his hand out for one of her cases. She shook her head mutely. Thankfully, he didn't push the point—just opened the door for her. He put a hand on her back that was no doubt meant to be comforting. "It'll be all right, love," he said softly.

"You're kidding yourself if you think that, John," she said quietly.

He frowned deeply, jaw tense. "Well, I'm sorry if I'm disappointing future _Strand_ readers, but I have no intention of being Holmes's whipping boy any longer. He knows where to find us."

She flinched at the raw emotion—now was definitely not the right time to talk some sense into him. And yet, would she really be able to keep silent on it for the rest of the day? It was still _morning_ , for crying out loud!

He let her pass first through the door, then closed it behind himself, tucking the note between the door and the frame.

"Maybe _I_ don't know where to find us," she whispered helplessly. She set off down the stairs, desperately hoping that the Doctor wouldn't be gone for very long and that Beth would seek them out quickly—she needed help.

John trod slightly heavier than he needed to and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Sally didn't pause—whether he decided to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson or not, she couldn't stay to see it: it would hurt too much. She walked straight to the front door and juggled her bags a bit to open it, hesitating for a moment and then stepping outside. She'd never wanted less to leave a place in her life.

* * *

Watson had to force himself not to pause on the stairs, not wanting Holmes to hear a faltering step. His ears had strained to hear the detective's approaching steps while packing, but there'd been no sound at all from below; and now they were in the downstairs hall, about to quit 221B, perhaps for good. He hesitated, looking up at the closed sitting room door one last time, a faint sense of doubt starting to nag at him... but no, he wouldn't be the first to give in this time, Holmes had to wake up and realise that his childish behaviour was entirely unacceptable.

Looking down the hall towards the kitchen with deepening regret, Watson was struck by a sudden, wicked impulse. Why should _he_ be the one to tell Mrs. Hudson where they were going, why not let Holmes do that? He almost wished he could be here to watch the Great Detective try to explain to the indignant landlady why the two of them had departed just as suddenly as they'd arrived. Stifling a smirk, Watson followed Sally out, closing the door quietly after them.

* * *

 **Ria:** *sniff* Boy, do I want to shake some sense into those two fatheads. Okay, technically it's our fault that this is happening, but you know how it is: some things even the writers can't prevent, the story just heads in a certain direction no matter what you do… and we've known this breakup was coming since the second episode. =(

 **Sky:** Yeah... it's been very upsetting knowing that this was coming this whole time. I'm not even sure I remember how the idea was first conceived, but it was, and it did end up being inescapable. I couldn't even help Ria write the initial dialogue—she had to write it herself. I couldn't get enough of a grip to be able to do it. And in-story, of course, it couldn't have come at a worse time... and just how bad it will get, you'll have to wait to see!


	4. A Brand New Sounding-Board

**==Chapter 4==**

 **A Brand New Sounding-Board**

 _People who need help sometimes look a lot like people who don't need help._

– Glennon Doyle Melton, Carry on, Warrior

Holmes listened to the footsteps on the stairs with held breath, tense as a wound spring. Not that he actually _wished_ to see anyone right now, of course, but... well, it did seem rather a shame that he and Watson couldn't at least have shaken hands in parting, it would have felt less... messy, perhaps. His spirits sank further at the sound of the front door closing, slumping deeper into his armchair and staring gloomily at the dancing flames in the hearth. He couldn't even watch from the window, there was always the chance of Watson looking up and seeing him, and besides... he would have That Woman on his arm...

Well, he supposed he ought to be getting ready to leave himself soon. Lestrade would likely be at the station already and it wouldn't do to keep the man waiting overlong. Then his heart most irrationally missed a beat at the sound of the front door opening and closing again - but the quick, light footsteps ascending couldn't be Watson's, and he doubted that Sally would have any reason for returning without her husband, which left only Beth. His brow furrowed, lips tightening as he realised that she must have slipped out while he was occupied with Mycroft. What the devil had she been doing out there on her own all this time?

* * *

It hadn't taken Beth long to find one of the Irregulars, an Irish teen named Kelly, although the initial meeting with the gang itself had been awkward. It took a couple of minutes to verify that, yes, she really did know their employer and would be staying at 221B for a week. But Beth managed to hit it off with their current leader, Will, a boy maybe a year or two older than she at the most. After a brief demonstration of how well Beth could hold her own in a round of fisticuffs, the boys were very interested in having a girl in their group for the next few days.

Which led her to pull the little formality she was about to. She _was_ obligated to come up with new ways to make Sherlock stop and look, after all. So she paused in front of the sitting room door, gathering up her nerve, then walked in, as professionally poised as possible. "Mr. Holmes, I am here to apply for a temporary position in the Baker Street Irregulars," she said in a rush that definitely betrayed her nerves. She handed over two printed sheets of paper that she'd worked on previously just for fun. "My resume."

Then she actually _looked_ at Sherlock and realised that she'd probably picked the worst time possible—he looked like a thunderhead. She froze, wishing she could drop right through the floor. Was she _ever_ going to stop making herself look like a fool in front of him?

"Is this meant to be some sort of jest? You may not have noticed, Miss Lestrade, but I am not exactly in a jovial frame of mind at present."

"Yes, sir, I have noticed," she said hurriedly, "and I do not take my practical jokes this far." She shook the papers insistently. "I take all opportunities of employment very seriously."

Sighing heavily, he took the papers and scanned them, still frowning. Maybe the experience section would pique his interest if nothing else, although she hoped that it would help him to see her in a different light. "Hopefully, my self-defense skills and experience speak for themselves?"

He arched an eyebrow as he continued to read. "Indeed, you certainly don't seem to have remained idle in the interim."

He didn't look or sound very… receptive. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, more nervous than she'd thought she'd be—maybe showing him this wasn't a good idea after all. "N-no, I wasn't—I haven't been." _Way to sound more mature._

"But what, I wonder, makes you think that it has any relevance on this occasion?"

She stared at him—after all that she'd been through, with him and without him, investigating extraterrestrial occurrences for two years… A familiar heat blazed to life in her. "'What makes me think'... What made _you_ think you could keep on solving cases after handling the first few?! You couldn't've been much older than me." No older than twenty if her reckoning of his timeline was correct. Having once been where she was, how could he so callously dismiss her?

His lips tightened, and her heart sank. "That is quite beside the point. In any case, I do not recall Mycroft entrusting you with this investigation—and I have your ancestor awaiting me at Aldgate, so if you will have the goodness to excuse me…"

She clenched her jaw and folded her arms. "Okay, let me put it this way: you can let me tag along… _or_ I can shadow you." She shook her head—there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that she was missing out on an honest-to-goodness case straight out of the Canon. "But either way, I'm coming."

He exhaled forcefully through his nose, glaring. She raised her chin and eyebrows in return.

"If you _were_ one of my Irregulars, Miss Lestrade," he gritted out, "I should have terminated your employment long ago for insubordination."

She chewed down a grin—poor, naive Victorian detective. "Oh, then you would definitely be succeeding where my principals failed." Had he really forgotten her much-deserved reputation in school? "You _did_ notice the part in there—" she nodded at the resume— "about my talent for not giving up on something once I'm set on it? I thought it just might be relevant."

He arched one gloriously elegant eyebrow. "Oh, you must have mistyped that line—I read here: 'Suicidally stubborn.'"

She tilted her head, arching an eyebrow in return. "Sounds about right." She made her expression brighten, giving him her most innocent, angelic look possible. She didn't really have a manipulative bone in her body, but that look had done wonders for her in the past. "Then you and I ought to get along just swimmingly!"

"Like a house on fire, no doubt," he said dryly, then muttered: "Flames, screams, people running to safety…"

She nodded. "And lots of 'ka-boom'." She smiled brightly and sweetly.

He smiled mirthlessly—a look that she hated but was getting used to. "That remains to be seen, does it not?" He rose and bowed sardonically, gesturing at the door. "I would ask you to not make me regret this, except that I do already."

She tried to swallow her reaction but couldn't, whooping in pure excitement.

He dragged a hand down his face, sighing deeply.

Grinning, she threw her arms around him. "Nooo, you won't, promise!"

He went rigid, eyes wide with surprise, and cleared his throat awkwardly. "I must ask you to release me, my dear, or this investigation will be off to a very slow start."

She gave a self-conscious laugh as she stepped back. She'd done it again... "A girl can't be immensely grateful?"

He frowned. "Perhaps, but if you wish to pass yourself off as one of my Irregulars, you'll need to learn to control your impulses."

Her grin faded completely. "That I can do. I'll just be one of the boys, really."

He gave another deep sigh. "At least your carriage is correct—you don't walk at all like a well-bred young lady." She stared at him, stung—out of any number of valid criticisms he could have given her, that was one she didn't think was called for. His expression turned stern. "Stay close to me and keep your mouth shut." He turned and exited the room.

Exhaling forcefully, she muttered, "Yes, _sir_." Apparently, this wasn't going to be as much fun as she'd thought it would be. Following him, she sighed—he seriously needed to lighten up for his own good as much as anyone else's. "Sherlock, the frown needs to go. Right now."

He didn't respond at all.

"Okay, fine—ignore me. What do I know? I'm just a kid and nobody special…" She wasn't an army doctor or a Time Lord or an older brother, so apparently she wasn't worth listening to.

He turned abruptly with a stern frown. She stepped back involuntarily. "I _believe_ I requested silence. If you cannot obey the simplest of instructions…"

"That wasn't an instruction or a request!" No, don't sound desperate, don't sound like a lost puppy—aw, zed. "That was you being… I don't even know. But I hate seeing you like this."

There was a twinge of _something_ in his cold expression that quickly passed. "Then by all means," he said ironically, "do not hesitate to remain behind."

She frowned in concern, suddenly and seriously unnerved. Where the heck was Watson, anyway?! He should be here. "Stop that. Stop it. I don't know _what's_ wrong with you, but it's scaring me. Just _stop_."

His brow furrowed, expression softening for a moment. _Sherlock Holmes, this isn't who you're meant to be, truly_ _ **meant**_ _to be. Come back to me, please…_ "Your concern is touching, my dear, but unnecessary." She _saw_ the mask slide back into place. "And we are wasting time. Let us be off."

She closed her eyes for a moment, then strode quickly past him, her hand brushing against his as she did. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her that she tried not to think about. After a moment, he followed her, whistling for a cab once he was out on the kerb. "Hansom!"

She grinned as a cab did roll up to them—she'd never seen a real one before.

Sherlock climbed in. "Aldgate Station."

She climbed in after him, wide-eyed and practically bouncing. "So awesome," she whispered.

He glanced at her sideways, eyebrow raised. "A little less wide-eyed, dear 'boy'. People will think you have never ridden in one."

Rolling her eyes, she forced herself to relax but couldn't quite manage to erase her grin.

"Although for the role you are assuming, perhaps it would be more appropriate for you to hang onto the back."

 _Son, don't go there_. If he wanted to be nasty, he'd quickly find out that she could give as good as she got. "About those practical jokes… There might be some advantages to helping Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen."

His eyes narrowed. "Only if you wish to truly experience your role and sleep on the street."

She shrugged, unconcerned. "I've done it before." Besides which, she could probably break back into the house if she had to. She glanced sideways to find a disapproving frown waiting for her. "Yeah, for real. My brother went with me." Not that Geoff had been happy about it in the slightest, but he'd understood why. She wasn't clever like Sherlock, or even like her dad—going into the Yard, her only assets would be her stubbornness and her empathy.

Sherlock's frown deepened.

"It was kind of… I don't know." She shrugged again. "I guess I was doing it for the experience."

"An experience I hope you shall never feel the need to repeat."

She stared out into the distance, remembering. "Not exactly. Except… the kids I met… I wanted to help them." It had broken her heart. "I could go back home… they couldn't."

She caught a glimmer of empathy in his beautiful grey eyes as the cab slowed. "We have arrived," he announced unnecessarily. "Do not touch anything, and if you must speak, for heaven's sake, disguise that atrocious Yankee accent!"

She sighed but replied in a more-than-decent Cockney. "Roight then, guv."

"Remember," he added, "your ancestor is a police inspector. An urchin like yourself would be suspicious of the law. No—" he made a face of distaste—"'fangirling'."

She gave him a small smile. "Hey, he's _my_ ancestor. I know too much about him." Quietly, she added, "He _is_ pretty good-looking, though."

Sherlock groaned. "I should have cuffed you to the railing back at Baker Street!" He climbed out of the cab and paid the driver.

She followed, whispering, "C'mon, I was teasing. Don' worry—distrustful of authority figures? Not a problem." She winked, then settled into her street boy persona.

Sherlock crossed over to where Geoffrey Lestrade was standing, and Beth trailed behind. "Ah, Inspector," Sherlock greeted, "apologies if we've kept you waiting."

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes." Inspector Lestrade nodded in greeting, then noticed Beth. "I don't suppose you'll be needing your Irregulars this time, sir, but I also suppose it can't hurt."

Beth kept her eyes down and managed a deadpan expression. _If only you knew, Geoffrey_ …

"Ben is something of a protégé of mine. Dr. Watson sends his regards—he was called away at the last minute on an urgent case of his own."

Beth frowned, knowing that that was not at all the truth; in fact, Watson's absence was worrying her more than a little.

And she wasn't the only one, apparently: Geoffrey tilted his head, eyes narrowing—a tic that Beth recognised all too well as one that she and her father shared. _Oh my gosh…_ "I'm sorry to hear that." Geoffrey's tone said that he _knew_ there was more to it than that, but he wouldn't press the issue whilst on official business—another thing he'd passed down to her dad.

Sherlock replied with a chillingly cold stare that clearly said _Mind your own business_. "Shall we proceed?"

Geoffrey's eyes narrowed further, but he nodded. "By all means." He gestured at an older gentleman standing off to the side. "This is Mr. Thompson, a representative of the railway. Mr. Thompson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock said, "Your servant, sir," and bowed. Beth couldn't help her eyes widening briefly any more than she could help thinking that he looked ridiculously graceful when he bowed.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes," said Thompson, "though I wish it were under kinder circumstances." He waved a hand at the rails. "This is where the young man's body lay. It could not have fallen from above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it could only have come from a train, and that train, so far as we can trace it, must have passed about midnight on Monday."

"Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"

"There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."

"No record of a door being found open?"

Beth looked up just a little, unable to help herself. She was getting to live out every Sherlockian's dream by meeting the Great Detective and actually _watching_ one of his canonical cases unfold. And it was _incredible_.

"None," Thompson confirmed.

Geoffrey spoke up. "We have some fresh evidence this morning. A passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about 11:40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a body striking the line, just before the train reached the station. There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no report of it at the time."

Expression intense, Sherlock stared hard at the railway lines. Beth suppressed a smile as she realised that he'd just reached his epiphany.

"Why," said Geoffrey, "whatever is the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

"Points," Sherlock muttered. "The points, Lestrade."

"What of it? What do you mean?"

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such as this?"

Geoffrey frowned as well, bemused. "No, there are very few."

"And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. Dear me! If it were only so." He looked so _alive_ —more alive than Beth thought she had ever seen him. Not even Jeremy Brett's performance in this exact case could compare with the reality before her. Sherlock Holmes was magnificent.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?" said Geoffrey. "Have you a clue?"

"An idea—an indication, no more." The grey eyes gleamed. "But the case certainly grows in interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any indications of bleeding on the line."

"There were hardly any."

"But I understand that there was a considerable wound."

"The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."

Beth couldn't help a wince. Sherlock noticed it, because she saw exasperation and sympathy flicker in his features. "And yet one would have expected some bleeding." He turned to Thompson. "Would it be possible for me to inspect the train which contained the passenger who heard the thud of a fall in the fog?"

"I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up since then, and the carriages redistributed."

"I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Geoffrey, "that every carriage has been carefully examined." There was a flicker of professional pride in his expression and tone. "I saw to it myself." Beth had known for a long time that her ancestor had gotten the short end of the stick with both Holmes _and_ Watson—she didn't doubt that Geoffrey had done as good a job of examination as any normal human being could.

Sherlock blew air through his nose impatiently. "Very likely." He turned away. "As it happens, it was not the carriages I desired to examine. Wa… Ben, we have done all we can here. We need not trouble you any further, Inspector. I think our investigations must now carry us to Woolwich."

Geoffrey gave a barely perceptible sigh. "I shall see you later, then, I'm sure. Good day."

"Good day, Lestrade, Mr. Thompson. I shall be in touch."

Thompson nodded. "Good day, sir."

"Come along, Ben," Sherlock said as he walked off, "we have much to do."

Beth trotted after him, chewing at her lip in thought. Once they were back in a cab, she said quietly, "Okay, so what next?"

"London Bridge," Sherlock told the cabbie. Turning to Beth, he said, "I must first send a telegram to my brother, then we shall be paying a round of social calls, so to speak."

She nodded. "Got it."

"So, did your first impressions of your ancestor live up to your expectations?"

She smiled softly. "Yeah." He'd been exactly the way she'd imagined from his own journals and the old photos, like and unlike Dr. Watson's own writings. "Yeah, absolutely. It was great."

"You comported yourself with commendable restraint."

She blushed a bit. He mostly certainly meant that, but she wasn't sure she ought to actually take that as a compliment. The sentiment itself was a bit high-handed, as if she had no restraint at all. Well, then again, she _did_ tend to act like an idiot around him. "Thanks. Ah… you could be a little nicer to him, though. I mean, he obviously respects you, and he puts up with you, and he does the best he can with what he's got."

"My dear Beth, if I were to change my demeanour towards your ancestor, he would arrest me for an impostor and demand to know what I had done with the real Sherlock Holmes. People do not wish for pleasantries nearly as much as consistency."

She sighed in exasperation. "I don't mean 'pleasantries'—I just…" She growled. "Forget it."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his brow furrow momentarily.

A few minutes later, the cab halted at London Bridge.

Her eyes widened at the magnificent sight. "This bridge is long gone by my time," she whispered.

Sherlock climbed out. "Wait here with the cab; I shall only be a few minutes." Off to send a telegram, as she recalled from the written story:

 _See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out. Meanwhile, please send by messenger a complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to be in England, with full address. Sherlock._

She tossed him a small salute and settled back to soak up the atmosphere. It had all the grey but sophisticated mood of period films like _Mary Poppins_ , _My Fair Lady_ , and even the Sherlock Holmes films with Robert Downey, Jr. Clouds chased away the pale November sunlight, and fog rolled in from the murky Thames. The elegant Victorian architecture was spotted and blackened with soot, as were the people of the working classes that passed by. She was uncomfortably reminded that her favourite period of history had as many problems as any other era, particularly in the class divide.

Sherlock returned shortly and gave the driver a new destination. "Woolwich Station." As they set off, Sherlock cleared his throat, and Beth turned to him, smiling.

"Okay, let's have it."

He arched one inquiring eyebrow.

"The case," she clarified, still smiling. "You do best when you can bounce ideas off of somebody, right?" She gave a small wave. "Hello—I'm your brand-new sounding board."

He hesitated, looking troubled for a moment. "I suppose…" She _saw_ him pull himself back together, and she wondered was wrong for probably the millionth time. "No doubt you are wondering what was in the telegram I sent to Mycroft."

 _Oh, zed_. She bit her lip back, looking at him steadily. Could she really keep it a secret from _him_ , The Sherlock Holmes? Nooo, quite possibly not. She either had to tell him now or let him figure it out quickly enough on his own, and the latter option was not at all appealing. He was going to be unhappy enough now—waiting for him to work it out would not help his eventual reaction.

Nothing else for it—time for damage control. "What if I said I already knew?"

His grey eyes narrowed. "Then I would surmise that you have already read of this case and you know how it ought to progress. Why did you not mention this earlier?"

"Because I'm being _very_ careful not to derail this case anymore than it already has been," she said, all traces of levity gone. Watson _wasn't here_ , and that couldn't possibly bode well for the Time-Space continuum. "I'm certainly not about to create a paradox in which information comes out of literally _nowhere_ because I read it in a book and yet you never found it out."

Now he looked genuinely angry, and her heart beat rapidly in response, tension knotting in her shoulders. "And yet your possessing knowledge of this case cannot help but create a paradox—have your travels with the Doctor taught you nothing?"

She drew herself up, eyes flashing—did he think she was stupid? _Honestly_ _!_ "Watching history happen isn't the same as changing it—the Doctor taught me _that_ much. And _I'm_ not the one actually creating the problem here. Dr. Watson is supposed to be here on this case, which—I might add—is how I came to read it, because he wrote it up! Why the _heck_ isn't he here?!"

Sherlock blushed slightly, not quite looking her in the eye anymore. "He has his own affairs to attend to," he said quietly, "as I have mine."

She stared at him for a moment, trying to process that. _Here, though the world explode, these two survive_ … Of course she'd known that relations had been straining between the two friends, but she'd never thought… She dropped her face into her hands, feeling like crying. "Oh my _gosh_ …" _Why?!_ "I get out of the house for a bit to get to know the Irregulars, and the world falls apart while I'm gone…"

"You exaggerate, my dear," he said softly. The cab rolled to a stop. "It seems I owe you an apology."

She looked up, heartbroken and confused. "For what?"

He leaned forward, took her hand… and before she knew it, she was cuffed to the door of the cab. "I am sorry, Beth."

The world had just been pulled out from underneath her.

He jumped out and handed up what was probably a generous amount of money to the cabbie. "221B Baker Street."

Then she found she could breathe again, and she started struggling. "No! No, Sherlock, you can't!" The cuffs were unrelenting, and she found herself panicking. "Sherlock, please!"

"No need to descend into hysterics, my dear." He was as calm and cool as ever, and he didn't _care_ … "Please try to bear yourself with a little more dignity." Sherlock waved and headed off for the train station, and the cab started to roll off.

How could he… how _dare_ he?! "I _hate_ you sometimes!" Beth shouted after him. Then the cab cleared the station, and she collapsed in on herself, sinking back into the seat. Chloe's… possession… had hurt like crazy—two years later, Beth wasn't sure she'd gotten over it, or that she ever would. But at least Chloe had _died_. She'd never betrayed Beth's trust…

"Sherlock," she murmured. "What is _happening_ to you?"

* * *

 **Ria:** When roleplaying these scenes out, we're often taken by surprise by what the characters come up with – like those handcuffs. It was a sudden, evil impulse (I blame Sherlock completely!), which astonished me as much as it did Sky. I'm very thankful she took it in good part!

 **Sky:** Oh my gosh, talk about enforced method acting! That really threw me, but I didn't actually question it—I was deep in the part at that point and the whole thing just _worked_. Sherlock Holmes _is_ a **massive** control freak, after all.

By the by, if any old readers of mine recognized the name of a particular Irregular, Kelly... yeah, that would be the same you've seen once or twice in my own stories! With Kelly about nine in 1890, he would definitely be a teenager in 1895.

One last thing: it's briefly mentioned that Beth has done some teen investigating on the side between "Child of Time" and now. We'll expand on that in the future, hopefully! It just seemed that, with her family's history, her career goals, and her experience with the Doctor, she would have ample reason to take up teen detecting.

Stay tuned!


	5. Revelations

**==Chapter 5==**

 **Revelations**

" _You must remember that when you are in love, and try never to place anyone on a pedestal. That way you spare yourself the pain of seeing them tumbling off."_

– Lesley Pearse, Charlie

Holmes stared out of his compartment window as the train picked up speed, reaching unthinkingly into his coat pocket for his pipe, and swore when he found it empty. All his smoking supplies were still back at the flat, he didn't even have one solitary cigarette; and he desperately needed to be able to think calmly, there were too many loose ends to this case, flapping around in his thoughts. It was a great pity that he could not have allowed Beth to accompany him - but then he doubted she could have remained silent for much longer about the case, anyhow. He shook his head in weary resignation. Fangirls... when _would_ he learn?

At least the case was proving to be a remarkable one - he felt a complete numbskull for not understanding its possibilities sooner. To be sure, the end remained dark to him, but he at least had hold of one idea which might lead him far: it now seemed much more likely that Cadogan West had met his death elsewhere, and his body had been placed upon the _roof_ of the carriage. It could hardly be mere coincidence that it had been found at the very point where the train pitched and swayed as it came round on the points, the roofs of the carriages being slightly rounded, with no railing to stop a person from rolling off. There could have been no bleeding on the line if the body had bled out elsewhere, which would also explain the absence of a ticket.

But even if he was correct about all of that, Holmes was still as far as ever from unravelling the circumstances of the young man's death; if anything, the case was rapidly becoming even more of a mystery...

* * *

Beth worked at her cuffs almost the entire way back, managing to spring them open by the time the cab rolled up to 221B. Still fuming, she jumped down and muttered, "Thanks." Who even _did_ that to people, cuff them to cabs?! She stalked up to the front door, tried it, and found it open, stepping inside.

Coming down the hall was a man in a neat suit, carrying a toolbag and talking with Mrs. Hudson. "Well, I'm sorry, ma'am, but as far as I can see, your clock is in perfect working order!"

The landlady looked upset; the clock in question must have been special. She caught sight of Beth, and her expression turned relieved, but she answered the man first. "In perfect… when it gives one less strike than it should every hour?!"

The man—the clockmaker, presumably—shrugged helplessly. "Ma'am, there's no sign of anyone having tampered with the mechanism. The cogs might be a little worn down, but not enough to have an effect like that! I could come back with my partner tomorrow, take it in to the workshop…" He gave her a placating smile. "No extra charge."

Mrs. Hudson made an impatient noise, then sighed. "Oh, very well! Thank you, young man, it was good of you to come on such short notice."

He touched his hat. "Ma'am." He took his leave then, nodding politely at Beth on the way past.

Mrs. Hudson closed the door after him, still looking anxious, and turned to Beth. "Miss Elizabeth, thank heaven you're back…" She trailed off, finally noticing the handcuffs and Beth's dark mood.

Beth forced herself to calm somewhat and found that she was tired. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson. Is everything all right?"

"I'd hoped you could tell me!" Mrs. Hudson looked positively distraught. "I went upstairs just now to see if Mrs. Watson wanted anything, but she'd gone, along with all of her clothes and half of the doctor's! And there was a note left for you…" She handed Beth the folded paper.

Beth stared at the note, more than a little afraid to open it, but took it and read it. The breath rushed out of her as she did.

 _Beth,_

 _Sally and I apologise deeply for the lack of warning, but due to unforeseen circumstances, we have decided to stay at the Charing Cross Hotel. You are more than welcome to join us there; however, if you choose to remain at Baker Street, our room is at your disposal. Regardless, we hope to see you again before the Doctor returns._

 _Sincerely,_

 _John_

"Oh, zed," she said in a small voice. "Zed, zed, _zed_ …" She looked up and met Mrs. Hudson's gaze, opened her mouth again, closed it, and shook her head, biting her lip. How _could_ they, both of them, Sherlock and John?! Poor Sally, what must she be going through right now.

Mrs. Hudson looked a little bemused but far more concerned. "Miss Elizabeth, what in the world is going on?! Where are Doctor and Mrs. Watson?"

Beth sighed. "Charing Cross Hotel," she said quietly.

Mrs. Hudson looked deeply relieved, probably to hear that the couple were safe.

Beth ran her hands through her hair, frustrated. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson haven't been getting along lately. I think things finally came to a head."

Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with distress and more than a little bewilderment, the poor woman. She was obviously something like a surrogate mother to her lodgers. "But… I don't understand… they seemed on the best of terms only last night! Mr. Holmes _was_ getting restless with all this fog, I know—but then that odd young man arrived, and…" She trailed off, eyes narrowing, lips tight as if at some kind of realisation.

She drew herself up and said sternly, "Young lady, I was not born yesterday, and it seems to me that there is a great deal going on here that I ought to know about. Tell me truthfully, now: is this the case?"

Beth winced and averted her gaze, exhaled forcefully, and nodded. "I think you were going to be told," she said quietly, "and heaven knows I'm not the one who should be telling you, but… I doubt now whether John will do it, and I'm pretty sure Sherlock won't. It's a long story, though," she added ruefully.

The landlady hummed thoughtfully. "Well, there is still a lot to be done before lunch—we'd best talk while we work. Come along," she said briskly, but not unkindly.

Beth ducked her head, deciding that now was not the best time to announce that she wasn't hungry. "Yes, ma'am," she said meekly.

* * *

Ensconced in a very Victorian kitchen, they were scrubbing and peeling fresh vegetables when Mrs. Hudson turned to Beth with an arched eyebrow. "Well now, Miss 'Smith'… perhaps you'd care to start from the beginning?"

Beth winced again, taking a shaky breath. "All right…" _Here's hoping she can handle this_. "The Doctor, the man who visited your lodgers… is a time-traveller."

Mrs. Hudson nearly dropped the potato she was peeling, eyes wide.

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson went with him on this grand adventure through Time…" Beth decided to leave out the "Space" bit for the moment; "and from their point of view, they've been gone for several months."

The landlady continued to look stunned as she listened, but she was _listening_ and trying to make sense of it, Beth could tell. "Well," she said slowly, "that would certainly explain a few things…" She didn't elaborate further, looking at Beth curiously. "And how did you ladies come to be involved in this?"

Beth shrugged. "Sally and I are from the future," she said simply. "We got caught up in things."

Mrs. Hudson blinked. "I see." They worked in silence for half a minute, the older woman looking thoughtful. "And what of you, my dear? Will you also remain here, in this time?"

Not having expected that question, Beth's breath caught. All the emotions she'd been keeping locked away by and large were threatening to spill out—bitter anger at the Doctor for breaking his promise, a keen sense of loss at the thought of losing Sally's company when they were just getting to be friends... and the ache in her heart that surfaced whenever she thought about Sherlock.

She'd wondered before if what she felt for him was anything more than a crush, but now, at the thought of having to leave him, forever… She wanted to scream, to howl at the unfairness of having to be separated from a man she loved dearly, without ever even telling him. Of course, she could never tell him—he clearly hardly cared about her at all. It would be far too humiliating. She wasn't even sure she _could_ tell him. She had a bad habit of tripping over her tongue and saying the stupidest things around him...

Swallowing hard, she finally said, "The Doctor is going to take me back."

"I'm so sorry, my dear," Mrs. Hudson said softly.

Beth ducked her head, heart aching at the sympathy in the older woman's voice.

A moment later, the doorbell rang.

Beth moved to answer and stopped. She looked down at her unfeminine attire, then ruefully up at Mrs. Hudson.

The landlady nodded, washed her hands, and exchanged her soiled apron for a clean one hanging on a peg with the speed and adroitness of a pit crew changing a tire before leaving the kitchen.

Sighing, Beth continued in her task, then smirked as a wicked thought came to her. She wished she really was brave enough to try to do something harmless but noticeable to Sherlock's food. Just the flavour, maybe…

Mrs. Hudson returned with another envelope. "Another message for Mr. Holmes; it must have to do with this new case." She tsked, frowning. "And heaven only knows when he'll back! I don't suppose he mentioned where he was going?"

She shook her head, a shadow falling over her mood again. "Not actually, but I have a pretty fair idea of where he's going and when he'll be back. Can I hold it for him?"

Mrs. Hudson arched an eyebrow, gave her a long considering look, and handed it over. She then changed back into the old splattered apron and resumed peeling vegetables. "I'd be grateful for your help after lunch if you can spare the time, my dear—the sitting room still resembles a snowdrift."

Sighing, Beth smiled ruefully. "I really don't have anything else to do—I'd be happy to help."

Mrs. Hudson gave her a grateful smile, though the look in her eye clearly said that she wondered whether Beth would be of the same mind by the time they'd finished. Beth didn't exactly _want_ to clean up a mess, but it was true: she had nothing else to do, and she had to have _something_. She'd go crazy otherwise.

* * *

The fog was beginning to disperse by the time Holmes reached Sir James Walter's stately villa, his spirits raised a little by the thin, watery sunshine breaking through and reflecting off the waters of the nearby Thames. He was in for a rude shock when he rang, however, the butler somberly informing him that Sir James had died only that morning! It was clearly a devastating blow for the household, particularly Sir James's younger brother, Colonel Valentine.

Unfortunately, the grief-stricken man was unable to provide any new data, and, despite his frustration, Holmes was rather relieved to bring the interview to a hasty conclusion. At this point, he could only speculate whether the scientist's death had been of natural causes, or whether the poor fellow had committed suicide out of guilt for duty neglected.

The next call, the Cadogan West residence, was even worse. The young man's elderly mother was far too distraught to be of any assistance; mercifully, Miss Westbury was also present, shaken and pale, but collected enough to answer his questions. The lady doggedly maintained her fiancé's innocence, yet it wasn't long before she was confessing that West _had_ seemed preoccupied of late, even going so far as to blushingly admit that his worries had concerned Goverment secrets and shady dealings.

"He said that we were slack about such matters - that it would be easy for a traitor to get the plans."

Holmes took his leave soon after, Miss Westbury's plea for him to save her fiancé's honour echoing in his ears. It had been black enough against the young man before, he reflected gloomily as the cab bore him away, but his inquiries only seemed to be making the case blacker. If West were guilty, then he had very nearly made the young lady an accomplice in the treason by telling her his plans. Yet surely character had to count for something, and Miss Westbury had been adamant that her fiance was as honourable as his superiors had previously believed. And West's abandoning her in the street so abruptly... Try as he might, Holmes simply couldn't move past that niggling detail.

His last port of call was, naturally, the Woolwich Arsenal. Johnson, the senior clerk, met him at the office, and soon provided Holmes with crucial details which he had previously lacked: most importantly, that if West had possessed duplicate keys, the clerk would have had ample opportunity to copy the plans in safety, rather than risk being caught stealing the originals.

Examination of the premises was still more encouraging, the detective finding signs in the garden below the office window that someone had stood here before him; and when the iron shutters on the window were closed, Holmes discovered that they hardly met in the centre, making it possible for anyone outside to see what was going on in the room. But who? West could have no need to spy on his own place of work, or have an accomplice do the same, another point in his favour.

Returning to Woolwich Station, Holmes added one last sheaf to his meager harvest. The clerk in the ticket office was certain that he had seen West on Monday night, in a state of great agitation, catching the 8.15 to London Bridge alone, less than an hour after leaving his fiancée. Left with no further avenues of inquiry, Holmes took the train back to London, deep in thought.

Every fresh advance thus far had only revealed a fresh ridge beyond it, and the general impression was still against the young man, but the revelations at the Arsenal were beginning to suggest otherwise. Supposing that West had been approached by some foreign agent and been coerced into silence on the matter, it would still have affected him in the manner described by Miss Westbury. And their route to the theater that evening had taken them past the office - if West had caught sight of the same agent in the vicinity, his impetuous nature might well lead him to pursue the thief. An outsider would have needed to steal the originals, not having time to make copies.

So far the line of reasoning had held together, but now there were more difficulties. Why had West not simply raised the alarm? Perhaps the thief was an official superior - or possibly given West the slip in the fog, and the young man had used his head by going straight to the thief's address, presumably somewhere in London. Whatever the reason, it must have been a matter of extreme urgency for the young man to leave his betrothed standing in the fog without a word of explanation!

Holmes tipped his head back against the seat with a sigh and closed his eyes. There was still a vast gap between any of his hypotheses and the solid fact of West's body being laid upon the roof of a train carriage - and the trail seemed to have run cold here, thanks largely to the three days' delay. It looked as though he would now have to begin work from the other end.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time Holmes returned to the flat. "Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady came out into the hall, looking decidedly stern. "A note came for you from Whitehall while you were away, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah, excellent." Mycroft, at least, could always be relied upon; and a quick look at his map of the city should hopefully narrow the list of suspects still further. "I gather Be... Miss Smith arrived back safely?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded stiffly. "She did indeed, sir. Will you be having any dinner? Or coffee?"

"The young lady will require dinner, Mrs. Hudson, thank you - I require nothing. I shall be departing again shortly, and most likely dine out."

He was favoured with a second stiff nod. "As you wish, Mr. Holmes." She began to retreat back into the kitchen, then turned again. "Oh, and do give my regards to the Watsons when next you see them." Her tone was innocent as a newborn babe's, in complete contrast to her expression of profound disapproval. "Have you any idea how long they intend to remain away?"

The question caught Holmes completely off guard - he'd already half-forgotten this morning's incident in all the excitement of the case. "I... don't know exactly," he managed to stammer out. "I, ah, shall certainly inquire if I... excuse me." He hurried upstairs, cheeks scarlet. Damn, damn, _damn_... As if staying in that wretched woman's good graces wasn't hard enough at the best of times! Had Beth told her what had happened? No, it was probably Watson, the sneak - he'd always been Mrs. Hudson's pet. It now seemed a genuine mercy that the doctor had insisted on leaving with Sally, or the woman might well have decided to throw _him_ out in their stead! He was going to have to keep well out of her way over the next few days.

Speaking of irate females... Holmes entered the sitting room warily to find Beth reclining on the settee, putting him strongly in mind of a panther at rest on a tree limb - she was certainly eyeing him just as darkly. "Message from Mycroft." Her voice was ominously low as she held up the note. "'Three foreign agents worth considering, Cabinet anxious, urgent representations from highest quarters, whole force of the State at your back.' Etcetera, etcetera."

Holmes advanced towards the settee, hand held out. "I should much prefer to read it for myself, my dear. If you would be so kind?"

She tucked it behind her back, eyes blazing. "Have you ever been handcuffed before? By someone you trust?"

Holmes actually had to stop and consider for a moment. "Yes, your ancestor - there was an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a tavern brawl... although to be fair, I was in disguise at the time." And if he was honest, he'd rather enjoyed the chance to put his knowledge of boxing to use outside of the ring.

Beth's voice grew sharp. "'To be fair'? Ohhh, I think you have issues grasping _that_ concept."

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "I believe I already apologised for what I deemed a necessary course of action."

"Apologised?! An apology _before_ you do something is _not_ an apology at all, Sherlock!"

"Consider yourself fortunate you _received_ one at all!" She needn't glare at him like that; considering that she'd already promised to follow his instructions without question, she should be grateful he'd been as patient as he had. "You should have distanced yourself from the investigation the minute you realised which one it was!"

"Oh, you need a better reason than that, because there are about a million ways to be careful to let history run its course while you're watching it happen. You know what? Not _only_ did you break _my_ trust in you, but you made it _painfully_ clear that you don't trust _me_ at all! You didn't trust me to be careful, to just _watch_. I wasn't _there_ for the _case_ , you idiot – I was there for _you_!"

Oh, her and her _exhaustive_ supply of italics? "How touching. Now, if you truly wish to aid my investigation instead of hindering it, you will hand over that note immediately!"

Beth flinched as if she'd been slapped, voice raw: "Yes, Mr. Holmes." She shoved the paper at him and got up off the sofa, heading for the corner where her duffle bag sat. "Read your darn note, solve your darn case, and then enjoy your peace and quiet."

Holmes frowned in consternation as she slung the bag over her shoulder. "What on earth...? Beth, you cannot be serious!" If she thought that she was setting one foot outside of this house again...

Beth whirled around, eyes glistening, her mouth moving for a few seconds before she was finally able to burst out, "You are _master_ of the mixed message!"

He stared at her, bewildered. _Females_... who could fathom them?! "I merely desire you to remain outside this investigation - what in the world made you think I wish you to leave?"

"Oh, maybe the fact that… gee, I don't know, I don't exactly feel welcome, case or no? I don't really want to be a part of solving the case – I know how it ends – I could probably recite everything you say about it from beginning to end if I really tried! That is _not_ the zedding point! I wanted to see you _working_ on a case! That's special. I wanted to just be around in case you needed a hand, or somebody to bounce ideas off of! I was there because of _you_!"

Her impassioned speech left him bereft of his own for several seconds. Finally, he managed to respond, in a somewhat softer tone, "Then please have the goodness to follow my instructions when they are issued from now on. While the Doctor is away refuelling the TARDIS in Cardiff, you are my responsibility, Beth."

She exhaled explosively, muttering, "I hate that card."

"I am not asking you to like it, my dear, merely live with it." Heaven knew the girl needed _someone_ to keep an eye on her.

Beth stared at him, still clearly upset, but dropped the bag and picked up her cap from the sideboard. "Go solve the zedding case, then," she said quietly, heading for the sitting room door. "I'll see you around."

"I would leave that off for now, my dear. Mrs. Hudson is preparing dinner for you downstairs." Holmes crossed to the bookshelf and took out his London map, spreading it out on the table. Underground track lines - there they were... and if they ran past any of these agents' addresses...

Beth stopped. "I'm not hungry."

Holmes's lips twitched, his attention still focused on the miniature city under his nose. "I wish you all the best in explaining that to her, then." At least Watson wasn't here to nag about such things anymore.

"Already did."

He shook his head, then looked up at a sudden thought. "Oh yes, just out of curiosity: How did you get out of those cuffs?"

She gave him a Look. "Sherlock, a) I'm an inspector's daughter, b) I'm working towards being an inspector myself someday, and c) I'm a girl with a decent hair-length. Ergo, I have hairpins and I know how to use them."

A huff of laughter escaped him. "I might have known..." He turned back to the map. Well, Adolph Meyer was out, as was Louis La Rothière; neither of their addresses were close enough to the railway lines...

Beth moaned. "Tell me you _didn't_ send me back without thinking I'd be able to get out of those cuffs."

She obviously hadn't noticed he was _trying_ to concentrate over here. "Mrs. Hudson keeps a spare key in case of emergencies," he replied absently. "I hope you didn't leave them attached to the cab door?" The final name on the list, Hugo Oberstein... Last known address: Caulfield Gardens, Kensington – ah! A row of houses which conveniently abutted upon the Underground - and he'd wager a large sum that those tracks ran clear of tunnels right under the back windows of No. 13.

"'Course not. I stalked down to the riverfront and threw them into the Thames." Holmes's head came up sharply. "They deserved it."

Holmes favoured her with a faint smile, amused in spite of himself. "Then your ancestor shall be most annoyed – they were his derbies."

Beth rolled her eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake, quit calling him 'my ancestor'. They're in your desk."

"Thank you," he nodded, refolding the map and putting it back in the shelf. "I am going out again. Might I trust you to stay out of trouble in my absence?"

She set her jaw, arms folded. "More like, can you trust trouble to stay away from me? It seems to have this thing for me no matter what year I go to…"

He arched a quizzical eyebrow at her - was she honestly expecting him to argue? "Perhaps, but I defy it to get past Mrs. Hudson's watchful eye without an open invitation. I shall be back in an hour or two."

Beth gave a reluctant nod. "And if _you_ get yourself in trouble, I _swear_ I'll kill you."

Well, she certainly wouldn't have to wait in line. "Reconnaissance only, my dear - I shall do nothing foolish."

Holmes headed quickly past her and out of the room, acting as if he hadn't overheard her answering whisper: "Sherlock, you already have..." Oh really, and what would she know about it - or him, for that matter? After all this time, the stupid girl still clung to the delusion that heroes existed; worse, that he was one of them! He might almost be tempted to laugh if it weren't so damn tragic.

* * *

 **Ria:** Hoo boy, the fireworks between those two… don't worry, folks, it only gets worse! *ducks for cover*

 **Sky:** Yeah, boy howdy. Poor Beth... *glares at Sherlock* Also, round of applause, please, for my lovely co-author, who worked on retelling the investigation of "The Bruce-Partington Plans" in a succinct fashion for any readers who haven't read the canon! I did not envy her that job!

Now, I have to say, we love this story dearly, and we work very hard on it... But with the scarcity of reviews we've had lately, it almost doesn't seem worth it. So, essentially, if this chapter doesn't see a positive boost in reviews, we may be inclined to... _postpone_... posting the next chapter. We hate to do it, but we also really need to know that you guys are actually enjoying this thing! Consider this: we do this for free. You read it for free. Literally the only payment we get is your feedback.

So, that in mind, please review!


	6. Loving Isn't Knowing

**==Chapter 6==**

 **Loving Isn't Knowing**

 _What would I give to live where you are?  
What would I pay to stay here beside you?  
What would I do to see you smiling at me?_

– The Little Mermaid

To Holmes's great satisfaction, his reconnaissance yielded most promising results. Beginning at Gloucester Road Station, accompanied by a railway official, he soon found the place where Caulfield Gardens abutted onto the line. As he suspected, the area was open to the air just here; and Mr. Smythe informed him that, since the line intersected with one of the larger railways, the Underground trains were frequently held motionless for some minutes at that very spot. It would be the easiest thing in the world for someone to place a corpse upon the roof of a carriage from one of these back-stair windows.

All that remained for Holmes to do for the present was to search the inside of No. 13. Mycroft's note had assured him that Oberstein had already left town, but he made a visit to the front of the house anyway, just to make certain - as far as he could tell, the bird had indeed flown to the Continent with the plans, leaving Holmes free to return here tonight at his leisure. He would have much preferred to gain access via a back entrance, but since there wasn't one, it couldn't be helped. Anyhow, the fog should still be thick enough to conceal him from prying eyes, and muffle any noise he might make.

If a warrant had been possible with the slim amount of evidence he possessed, he might have gone straight from here to Scotland Yard; as things stood, though, he had little choice but to take the law into his own hands. Considering the wider repercussions if he failed to retrieve the plans, it was hardly a time to stick at trifles.

With over an hour left to while away, Holmes took himself next to Goldini's for a bite of dinner, until he judged it was almost dark enough to embark upon his new career as a burglar. Unfortunately, the tools he needed for the job were all still at Baker Street, and there was no longer anyone there whom he could ask to come on such a potentially incriminating errand; he would simply have to go back and get them himself.

* * *

Holmes let himself in the front door as quietly as possible, hoping not to run into either Mrs. Hudson or Beth. No such luck, however – Beth was in the sitting room when he entered, reading one of Watson's nautical novels on the settee. The sight made Holmes pause uncomfortably, looking around the room properly for the first time, noting his former flatmate's various belongings. He would probably have to make some sort of arrangement with the doctor for him to retrieve them, once this case was concluded. Of course, if the doctor was prepared to beg Holmes's pardon for his earlier conduct, he _might_ consider renewing their acquaintance in future...

Beth was not in the greatest of moods when she heard Sherlock return. She felt restless and useless, starting to wish that the Doctor _hadn't_ come back for her. What good had it done anyone? It now seemed like one big joke, a sad, cruel joke... She couldn't even call Sally because her phone was missing—her best guess being that one of the Irregulars had nicked it off her.

As Sherlock entered the sitting room, she looked up from the book she was reading. "Hi, honey," she said, sarcasm dripping from her words—"you're late tonight."

Pointedly ignoring the jibe, Holmes headed into his bedroom, wondering dourly why he hadn't used the hallside door. Now, if he could only find his toolbag amongst all this clutter – why couldn't Mrs. Hudson have tidied up in here as well?

Beth sighed: she needed to stop and calm down. She was still stuck here for the next few days, and Sherlock... well, she still loved him. She should be acting like it. "I'm sorry," she called after him. "So what's up next?"

Dear Lord, nosiness really was hereditary. "Nothing that need concern you." Ah, _there_ it was, at the bottom of the closet. He checked the bag's contents – jemmy, chisel, dark lantern, matches... no, he probably wouldn't need the revolver. Just a quick change of clothes, and he'd be ready.

Beth shifted her jaw. _Why_ did he have to be so difficult? "You're going to break into Oberstein's place."

Holmes exhaled impatiently through his nose, finally locating his second tennis shoe under the bed. "As you are perfectly well aware – and no, you are not invited!" Ensemble complete, he took up his bag and re-entered the sitting room.

She snorted— _that_ was perfectly clear by now. "Oh, no kidding!"

And just what was that supposed to mean? "I have no intention of arguing about this, my dear. You are not coming with me and that is final!"

Forget the farce of her applying to be an Irregular; he wasn't paying her, he wasn't really her boss, and he wasn't her guardian. The Doctor had already made it clear that he regarded her as an adult, and as such, Sherlock had no authority over her—a fine point which was obviously lost on him. Her voice dropped in volume, eyes burning. "Stop calling me 'my dear,' because I'm very obviously _not_."

His eyes narrowed, what little remained of his patience rapidly wearing thin. "Would you prefer some less polite form of address? Because I can think of several which would be appropriate, although hardly fit for a gentleman's use."

"Oh, _please_ don't let courtesy stop you," she said hotly, eyes flashing challengingly. "You haven't yet, why start now?"

For the love of God, how was it possible for _one_ female to be so... _irritating_? "Because," he grated out through clenched teeth, "I consider trading insults with a petulant, sulking child to be entirely beneath me!"

She gave a high, bitter laugh—that was _rich_ coming from him. "This from a grown man who _indulges_ in petulant sulking on a regular basis?" She'd certainly seen him do it, and she didn't hold back on the acid as she continued: "You haven't hesitated to walk all over me in just about every other way possible—you might as well use 'some less polite form of address'."

He had been on the point of leaving, weary now of this fruitless argument, but the biting scorn in her voice stung him beyond endurance. "Do not tempt me, I implore you!" he snapped back. "Lestrade may be a blind, blundering fool at times, but even he does not deserve such a shrewish little hoyden as a descendant!"

She'd risen and moved towards him, going white at his accusation, stunned and as angry as she'd ever been in her life.

"At least he will be spared _that_ knowl—"

She slapped him across the face, trembling with fury. "How _dare_ you, you selfish, inconsiderate—" She stopped herself just in time, before she said something she knew she'd regret, even now. She stepped back, chest heaving, fists clenched. Not even any of the bullies in high school had ever... ever...

Caught completely off guard, he could only stare at her at first, mouth open... then gingerly raised a hand to his cheek as it began to sting in earnest. "I rest my case," he said slowly, his sudden grim amusement almost overtaking his outrage. 'How dared _he_ ' – when _she_ had been the one to strike _him_! Where the devil did she think they were, in a music hall melodrama?

Shaking, she drew herself up, staring back at him—she was nearly at eye-level with him, just a couple of inches shorter. "My name is Beth," she said in a low, trembling voice. _Hi, I'm a human being—what are you?_ "I am _not_ a child. I _am_ a _person_. And I am _not_ going to be steamrolled by you."

Not a child? Holmes barely suppressed a snort – he would be the judge of that, thank you _very_ much. "If you wish to be treated as an adult, Miss Lestrade," he said quietly, "then perhaps you should consider acting like one." A grim note of warning entered his voice. "You can be thankful my physical control far exceeds your own, but you would still be wise not to repeat that performance in future." Any further displays and he would feel little compunction about responding in kind.

She paled, all the fight sucked right out of her. Would he really...? She'd done it in temper, and she was pretty sure that even her mom wouldn't have faulted her for it. "Thankful?" Her mouth moved soundlessly for a moment as she tried to work out a reply. "I have been," she murmured. "Trying to be an adult. You haven't even noticed."

He merely arched a scathing eyebrow, not deigning to respond – well, that and his cheek was still smarting fiercely, he'd be damned if he was going to let her see him wince!

She closed her eyes for a moment, almost folding in on herself. Why was she still here? He didn't even _like_ her, and now he'd probably lost the last bit of respect for her he'd had. ...oh, who was she kidding? She still... she still loved him. Even now, when she wished she didn't—it would hurt less.

Heart crashing against her ribcage, she opened her eyes and gathered her courage, leaning up and softly kissing his red cheek. "Let me know if you're ever actually ready to _listen_ when I'm trying to say something," she murmured shakily. She pulled back, still trembling, and took a step backwards towards the door.

Holmes's hand lifted involuntarily to his cheek again, thunderstruck for the second time in as many minutes - he couldn't have acted to stop her if he'd wanted to. She... she'd _kissed_ him... _Why?_

Heart still pounding, she turned, moved slowly towards the door, and paused. She looked back over her shoulder, uncertain of why she did so, but... She didn't _want_ to leave. Why couldn't he just _listen_ to her? Why...

Perfect, now the rest of his face was turning red to match. Hastily, he looked down and away, wishing more fervently than ever that he'd never invited the Doctor to Baker Street.

Biting her lip, she turned and shut the door quietly behind her. She slumped to the floor in the hall, then, as if her strings had been cut. Breath hitching, she tried to force back the tears that threatened to spill out—she'd cry once she had enough energy to get off the floor and up the stairs to her new room... The Watsons' room, oh gosh...

Holmes exhaled explosively as the door shut, turned and paced away from it, then back again, running a hand distractedly through his hair... then halted in confusion as he realised what he was doing. For God's sake, was the _matter_ with him?! At the very least, he should be relieved that she'd finally left him in peace!

She pressed herself against the wall, a couple of tears getting past her defenses. Oh, zed, why couldn't she stand up and climb the stupid stairs? She could cry in peace there... like the child she still was, apparently. She splayed her hand on the wall to steady herself, and a whimper escaped her. Zed, she _really_ hoped he hadn't heard that—the last thing she wanted was for him to come out to find her here and like this...

Holmes threw himself into his armchair, trying not to look at Watson's... at the empty chair in front of him. He realised with chagrin that he was drumming his fingers on the arm and stopped, gaze travelling back to the sitting room door in spite of himself. Could Beth still be out there? He hadn't heard any footsteps going up or down the stairs, and he could hardly leave the room if she was still on the landing, that would be beyond awkward!

Beth shifted, seeking a more comfortable position, which didn't make sense because she really should have been _going_...

Too late. She would swear that Mrs. Hudson sneaked up the stairs, because Beth had no warning of her coming until the older woman said, "Miss Elizabeth, what on earth...?"

Beth jumped and jerked around, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights and wishing she could drop right through the floor... and the one below it... straight down about a mile or so into the Earth's crust. That should do nicely. Problems all solved. "I... ah..."

Mrs. Hudson pressed her lips together and nodded. Why, Beth couldn't begin to guess, unless Sherlock Holmes's landlady had more talent in mind-reading than he himself did. Mrs. Hudson juggled the tray she was carrying, opened the sitting room door and stepped inside. "Mr. Holmes, I brought you a pot of coffee. I thought you may have wanted it."

Beth peeked cautiously around the door-frame, wide-eyed, as Mrs. Hudson delivered the tray to the table.

Holmes had started guiltily when the door opened, but gave the woman a meek nod of acknowledgement. "Er, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I should be glad of it." The orange liqueur coffee at Goldini's hadn't tempted him this time, he simply hadn't felt in enough of a celebratory mood.

Mrs. Hudson nodded back, mercifully still refraining from further remark on... well, any uncomfortable subjects. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

Beth really wanted to know why her body was being such a problem child, because she should be sneaking back and going upstairs... And here she was, still watching around the door. What was wrong with her?

Holmes hesitated, thoughts beginning to occur which probably should have done long before. If Beth was to remain here until the Doctor returned... "Would you be so kind as to prepare Watson's… the third floor room for Miss Smith, if you have not already done so?" The extra space might as well be put to good use, until he could advertise for a new flatmate.

Mrs. Hudson arched a stern eyebrow. "I have indeed, sir." Of course she had, stupid of him to assume otherwise.

Holmes sighed heavily as he finally sensed the second pair of eyes watching him. "And would the young lady in question _please_ cease to eavesdrop in the hall? I should like to speak to her in person." His anger had, if not completely cooled, then at least subsided enough to let him realise that... well, perhaps he could have chosen some of his earlier words with a _little_ more care.

Oh, _zed_. Flushing darkly, Beth stood and stopped in the doorway, wishing more than ever that she could drop through the floor. Somebody just dig her a hole and bury her, please?

Mrs. Hudson eyed the two of them, then shook her head. _Don't leave me, Mrs. Hudson, please._ The landlady patted Beth's shoulder gently and left, and Beth took a deep breath, looking down, feeling lost and... afraid? She just wanted to leave, now—she was ready for the Doctor to take her home...

Beth's face was a study in uncertainty, which didn't make this any easier. Nevertheless, Holmes rose from his chair, noting wryly that Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully provided a second cup. Well, why not? A peace offering would be a good starting point, perhaps. He poured the first cup, then held it out to Beth, hoping she'd get the message. Besides, time _was_ growing short, it would help if she at least met him halfway.

She looked up slightly—he was offering her coffee now? Confused and still averting her gaze, she entered the room and accepted the cup. Oh gosh, why was she still here? She should just... go find the Watsons... or... go find the Watsons... she didn't have a lot of options in the way of a roof over her head. Sherlock would maybe be nice for a minute and then soon enough be sulking again and they'd be arguing and they'd both end up miserable. It would be better for them both if she just left now.

He busied himself with pouring the second cup, still uncertain of exactly how to go about this... but then he glanced up again, and the last of his anger melted away at her look of mute distress, leaving only remorse. "I, er..." He set the coffee pot down and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Beth, I... I wish to apologise." Well, perhaps not _wish_ to, exactly, but he certainly owed it to her.

She looked up in surprise and maybe a little disbelief, eyes wide. "I'm sorry I hit you," she blurted out.

And just when he thought she'd run out of ways to surprise him... His brow furrowed, feeling curiously irked that she'd managed to get her apology in before his. Nevertheless... "To be honest, Beth... I am impressed that you refrained from striking me for as long as you did." He looked down again, face reddening as it dawned on him how indecorous his conduct had been just now - and after everything he'd said earlier about responsibility, too. How _could_ he have let her rile him like that? "What I said to you was, quite frankly, unpardonable. I insulted not only you, but your family as well."

Her eyes widened further, wishing now more than ever that she could know exactly what was going on in his head. He wasn't just master of the mixed message—he was master of the _mood-swing_. She had no idea what to think of him anymore, much less _expect_ of him. Except for one thing...

"Sherlock," she murmured, and stopped, unsure of what to say. She sighed, set her cup down, and slowly, cautiously wrapped her arms around him. It was the only response she could think of.

Well, _that_ did it - he really wasn't going to be surprised by anything she did after this! Making a concerted effort not to tense up like he had this morning, Holmes returned the hug, although somewhat gingerly. "Forgive me, Beth..."

"You already are," she said softly, sadly. At least he wasn't pushing her away this time. "That doesn't make it hurt any less." She stepped back, breaking off the hug, and picked the coffee mug back up, walking slowly towards the door. "At least you only have a few more days of having to put up with me."

His chest felt uncomfortably tight as she moved away - but then he could hardly blame her for believing he would find that thought a comforting one. "Beth... this isn't..." He sighed and tried again. "Please do not think that I shall... be glad of your leaving." For all that she frequently set his teeth on edge as no other female of his acquaintance had ever done before, her company when they were occasionally in agreement was not unpleasant, far from it. Strange as it might seem, he knew that he would be sorry to bid her farewell – and it would be farewell, he knew better than to think he'd ever see her again, or even the Doctor.

She turned and stared at him. Of _course_ , she thought that—why _wouldn't_ she?! Why the zed would he feel anything but relief at her going?! "You know, I _do_ think that. Ever since I got back on board the TARDIS, I…" She'd felt unwanted, and not just by Sherlock, either. She shook her head and tried again. "I don't mean anything…" She had to stop again—it hurt too much. She didn't matter to anybody, she'd only been there because the Doctor owed her, and even then he obviously didn't care enough on that score. Maybe she'd just started to become friends with Sally, but for all the good that was worth now. And as far as Sherlock was concerned, she was pretty sure she meant less than nothing. Whether it had to do with her sex or her age or both, she couldn't tell, but she didn't matter to him.

He stared back, rendered speechless yet again, this time by sheer embarassment. It didn't seem to matter, though - what _could_ he say to comfort her right now? Poor girl... how very blind he'd been not to see earlier that her regard for him had gone beyond her lingering admiration for a childhood idol. And Beth was a perfectly sensible girl in other respects, could she not understand that nothing could come of such foolish fantasies? Thank God for this case, and for Mrs. Hudson, whom he was sure he could count on to act as chaperone should the circumstances demand it.

How quickly things changed – less than a minute ago, he had regretted the loss of her company, and now... well, if he was honest, he still regretted it, but it couldn't be helped. The sooner Beth returned to her old life, the better it would be for both of them; he would not have her lingering here, torturing herself needlessly over what could not be.

In the absence of a reply, she continued—might as well air out what she could, even if she couldn't say, _hey, I love you, you idiot_. Zed, that just might kill him. "It's just as well—'cos I definitely can't do this. I'm not a child anymore, and I can't just…" She couldn't stay _caged_ here in 221B until the Doctor came back for her—the cabin fever would kill her. "You've been trying to control me, and I can't live like that! Yes, just in regards to the case! But that's who you _are_! And I can't… I _can't_ just sit on the sidelines… because that's who I am, too."

Didn't she think he knew that? Holmes heaved a deep, weary sigh, looking at her sadly. "I am sorry, Beth – I wish I could take you with me." If nothing else, he would appreciate having a second pair of eyes to watch his back. And come to think of it, the Irregulars had been curiously absent all day... but it was too late to contact any of them now. "But you know that what I am about to do is well outside the law, and I cannot be worrying about you as well. Watson..." He faltered for a moment, then shook himself; "if he were here, he would no doubt counsel strongly against such measures." Probably even threaten to go to Lestrade.

Her chest ached. "I can't even tell you what he actually would have said…" She didn't doubt for a moment that Watson would still have willingly broken and entered with Sherlock if they hadn't fallen out. He hadn't hesitated to break the law in the case of Irene Adler, after all.

Holmes smiled faintly, touched by her obvious concern. It was a great pity that things had had to end like this – but so be it. Watson had his own affairs to attend to now, there would be no room in his domestic life for people whom he only regarded as an embarassment. "You, on the other hand, would no doubt be a willing accomplice, and I do appreciate that - but it cannot be."

"That's it!" Beth protested. "That's my point right there. You won't let me make my own choices, take responsibility for myself... living much longer like that would kill me." She turned, reached the door, and stopped again, looking back over her shoulder and forcing back new tears. _Please, just_ _ **listen**_ _to me_. "But leaving isn't going to be any easier."

For God's sake... what did she expect him to do? He couldn't help her, not like this, what she wanted was impossible, and rightly so... but knowing that didn't make his position any easier, either. And, dear heaven, how long was she going to stand there staring at him like that? "Good night, Beth..." he said quietly. _Just go to bed,_ _ **please**_ _..._

Eyes burning, she clenched her jaw, raised her chin, and left the room. After tonight, she would leave. She wasn't sure what she'd do, but she couldn't stay here any longer. She couldn't.

Thank God, he could finally get out of here. Holmes picked up his coffee and drained half of it, grimacing - he'd left it too long, it had turned tepid. He collected his bag and left the room, relieved to find the landing deserted. Opening the front door, he hesitated, looking consideringly at the dense fog still filling the streets, then back over his shoulder up the stairs... but no, it wouldn't be fair to disturb Beth now. Besides, what had she said to him earlier about mixed messages? He shook his head regretfully, and shut the door behind him.

Once she heard the front door close, Beth ran down the stairs from the second-story landing. She eased the door open and peered out, searching for and sighting Sherlock. She stepped out, closed the door gently behind her, and set off after him. She'd never shadowed someone before, and of course, her first time _would_ be the Great Detective.

* * *

 **Ria:** Oww, my heart! Those two stubborn idiots... Come to think of it, this is our first dual POV scene for Sherlock and Beth since their TARDISode. The fireworks between them may be thrilling to read, but it's agonising to write, and of course it has to get worse before it gets better.

 **Sky:** Oh, golly. :'( Poor Beth, she tries so hard—not even to be loved but just to be _liked_. This chapter has seen its share of revision: the slap wasn't originally part of the scene because the conversation had originally not been that bad. But then it got worse, and we felt that Sherlock really deserved that slap, heh. I feel like saying sorry for such a downer chapter, but, really, they've almost all been, and it's necessary for the story. It'd be like apologizing for the bad-to-worse-ness of "Bad Wolf," "Army of Ghosts," "The Sound of the Drums," "Stolen Earth," "The Pandorica Opens," or "Dark Water." In grand New Whovian fashion, we've got a long, rough ride ahead of us.

Stay tuned for the next chapter, in which the Watsons receive an unexpected caller...


	7. Welcome To The New Age

**==Chapter 7==**

 **Welcome to the New Age**

 _"This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy than that. It is fortunate for this community that I am not a criminal."_

– Sherlock Holmes, The Bruce-Partington Plans

The London November night was cold and damp. Beth felt chilled to her bones as she stood just a few paces away from Number 13 Caulfield Gardens, watching Sherlock examining the door lock. The house on the other side of 13 must have been hosting a children's party, just as the written story said: she could hear a cheerful din of children's voices and a piano being played.

Sherlock rose, apparently giving up on the front door, and moved to climb over and down the fence in front of the basement. Beth craned her neck to watch, and then froze at a new set of footsteps, sounding close. Sherlock had no cover where he was and a burglar's tool-kit on him!

"Hey, you!" called a Cockney voice with all the authority of a Scotland Yard patrolman.

 _Zed._

Sherlock instantly dropped his bag and bolted, heading off into the shadowy fog, and the bobby came into sight a moment later, running in his direction and blowing a whistle.

 _No, no, no!_ This wasn't supposed to happen! Sherlock had to get inside Oberstein's! She would try herself, only… that would probably not be such a good idea. Well, zed. There was no way he was coming back here tonight—he'd probably lose the bobby and head home.

She'd have to head that way now herself… she hoped she'd manage alone and unaided. Maybe she'd bump into an Irregular—that would be a blessing. At night, in this fog, in a city she was new to, she could get lost all too easily.

"Please be safe," she murmured to the long-gone detective as she retrieved his burglar kit. Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, she set off for Baker Street.

* * *

Determined not to let the circumstances spoil their time away, Watson took Sally to dinner at the hotel that evening, then to the theater in Aldwych to see the popular comedy, _Charley's Aunt_. He was gratified that his wife seemed to be mostly enjoying herself, despite the occasional anxious glance in his direction when she thought he wouldn't notice.

They emerged from the theater to find that the fog was thicker than ever, too thick even for a cab – they would have to walk back to the hotel. That was no bad thing, however, Sally would need to grow accustomed to navigating the streets in such conditions... Watson smiled ruefully – Holmes's words to him earlier about his wife learning to blend in seemed to have stayed with him – but that was no bad thing, either, really. His anger at Holmes's pettishness had had time to cool, and he couldn't look back on their parting now without a much deeper sense of misgiving. Holmes's conduct had been inexcusable, of course... still, given what was at stake in this latest case, perhaps Watson had been a _trifle_ hasty in leaving the detective to his own devices.

But no, surely he was being foolish, Holmes was hardly bereft of allies. He had Mycroft to call upon, Scotland Yard, the Irregulars, Mrs. Hudson – even Beth, since she seemed to have chosen to remain at the flat. Well, if he was still of a mind in the morning, he might just see if any of the Irregulars were about and make some discreet inquiries.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a shrill ringing sound – what on earth...?

Sally had started as well, then brightened. "Oh, that might be Beth." She glanced around to make certain that no one else was close enough in the fog to spy on them, then took her new phone out of her purse. "Hello?"

 _"_ _Sally, thank goodness!_ _"_

"Doctor!"

 _"_ _Are you all right?_ _"_

"Yeees..." Sally answered slowly, frowning, then sighed. "Maybe you should to talk to John." She handed the phone to Watson, who was frowning himself as the ominous noises in the background became clearer – he'd never heard the TARDIS sound so distressed before!

 _"_ _Hello, Watson?_ _"_ The Doctor's tone of false cheerfulness made his colleague's heart sink. _"_ _Anything unusual going on?_ _"_

Watson shifted guiltily – he hadn't been looking forward to explaining recent events to the Time Lord. "Ah, how unusual, exactly?"

The Doctor's voice turned grave. _"_ _Anything even_ _ **vaguely**_ _apocalyptic. The TARDIS is picking up on_ _ **major**_ _temporal disturbances._ _"_

Watson's brows knitted in alarm. "No, we haven't seen anything like... No, wait," he went on slowly, "Mrs. Hudson did say something about her grandfather clock acting a little oddly –" Although she'd never said just how, come to think of it; "she thought Holmes had been tampering with it."

 _"_ _That_ _ **would**_ _be a byproduct, yeah. Watson, what did you do?! You and Holmes did_ _ **something**_ _—there's no other reason I can think of for this craziness! The Rift is starting to go_ _ **wild**_ _._ _"_

The Doctor's question had filled with Watson with horror – although he couldn't imagine that even Holmes could have done anything that was _that_ bad! – but the last words drove every other concern out of his head. "Well, get away from there!" he said sharply. "Are you mad?!"

 _"_ _If I could, I would! There's too much pull from the Rift for the TARDIS to get out just yet, sort of like a riptide. Where are you right now?_ _"_

"Sally and I are on the Strand..." Watson glanced around for a landmark – ah, there was a familiar establishment! "Just opposite Simpson's..." His voice trailed off, staring as he recognised one of the men in the party that was about to enter the restaurant. "Dear God," he whispered, a chill going down his spine.

"What is it?" Sally's eyes were wide, face pale.

 _"_ _Watson, what's wrong?_ _"_

"I've just seen a dead man going to dinner," Watson answered, grimly but firmly – even through the fog, there was no mistaking that face, or the bushy handlebar moustache. "Lord Randolph Churchill's looking remarkably well, considering they buried him _last_ winter..." And worse still, no one else in that party looked the least bit perturbed – what the hell was going on around here?!

Sally gasped, and the Doctor sounded equally horrified. _"_ _Okay. Okay... Watson, get back to Baker Street_ _ **right now**_ _. I'll get there as soon as I can - just_ _ **go**_ _and stay put._ _"_

"Right, we're on our way – and for God's sake, Doctor, be careful!" Well, this _was_ a pretty kettle of fish! And if Holmes was out working on the case, how on earth were they going to contact him?

 _"_ _I'm try–_ _"_ The Doctor's voice was cut off abruptly.

Watson paled. "Doctor!" But there was no answer, just the hiss and crackle of static... then nothing at all. _Call Ended_ , the display stated smugly.

Sally's breath caught. "Oh my god..."

Watson took her hand, forcing himself to calm down. "All right... Baker Street's not that far, but we'd best try to get a cab, if we can." Most cabbies wouldn't normally drive in fog this thick, the risk of accidents was too great – but with a large enough bribe? He started to hand back Sally's phone. "Call Beth, tell her..."

He broke off again as his attention was caught by two more men in evening dress emerging from the fog ahead of them, swiftly palming the cellphone and slipping it into his pocket until they should pass... except that it didn't look as if these men did mean to pass by, they were slowing their steps. Watson's soldier sense was suddenly tingling, something about these two felt decidedly off. Squeezing Sally's hand in warning, he asked lightly, "Are you lost, gentlemen?"

The first gentleman shook his head, answering pleasantly, "Not at all – I think we've found exactly who we're looking for, Dr. Watson."

Watson felt Sally tense as the second man bowed to her with a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good evening, miss."

"Our employer sends his deepest apologies for the late hour, Doctor, but respectfully requests that you grant him the honour of your company."

Watson's response was equally pleasant, but with an undertone of steel: "Please return _my_ apologies to your employer – I am needed at home." He couldn't see any signs of weapons about the men's persons, and that was somehow more worrying.

The first man's smile became slightly more fixed, eyes growing colder. "I'm afraid our employer was most insistent, Doctor. He promises it'll be worth your while." His gaze flickered meaningfully over to Sally as the muffled sound of a horse's hooves sounded close behind Watson, drawing nearer and slowing to a stop. "If you'll take your leave of the young lady, we can be on our way without further ado."

Watson's mind raced, considering the options. Of course, there was a slim chance that he and Sally could make their escape and lose these men in the fog, but the knowledge that his wife would most likely be in far less danger if he went quietly settled the matter. And mercifully, the men didn't seem to know that they _were_ married – thank God both of them were wearing gloves, concealing their rings.

Besides, it was entirely possible that this mysterious employer was somehow connected with the theft of the submarine plans. Whatever Holmes's opinion of Watson's abilities might be, he at least owed it to Mycroft to follow up on any potential leads. He nodded, gaze icy. "Very well."

"John..."

Watson hastily cut Sally off before she could say anything unfortunate, his smile strained. "My dear Miss Smith, pray don't upset yourself. I hope your mother will forgive me for not escorting you home, but I'm certain this shan't take long to clear up." His eyes pleaded with her to take care.

Sally swallowed hard, nodding silently.

Watson gave her hand one last squeeze, then turned to the men, raising an expectant eyebrow.

The first man gave him an approving nod. "Much obliged, Doctor." He gestured up the street to the waiting four-wheeler. "This way, if you please."

Watson steeled himself not to look back as he walked away, although he was greatly relieved to hear the second man say apologetically to Sally, "Terribly sorry, miss. You're only a step or two from Charing Cross, I'm sure you can find a cab at the hotel." Indeed she might, Watson realised, heart sinking as he climbed into the carriage, but how was she going to pay for one without any money of her own? And... oh, dear God... she couldn't even call Beth; her phone was still in his coat pocket.

* * *

Getting back to Baker Street was certainly a feat, considering the heeled shoes, the corset, the cold, the darkness, the unfamiliarity of Victorian London, and the danger of being a lone young woman out on the streets at night. Sally stuck to the shadows as much as possible, praying that she would go unnoticed and that her husband would be all right. Who _were_ those men?!

At last, the back of 221B came into sight through the fog. _Please let Sherlock and Beth be home, please let them be home_ _._ Sally trudged forward and knocked insistently on the back door.

After a few seconds, she heard shuffling footsteps inside and a key turning in the lock. The door opened a crack to reveal Mrs. Hudson's sharp eye peering warily. She opened it a little wider at the sight of Sally, frowning, eyes wide with surprise. She was dressed for bed, nightgown, dressing gown, slippers, hair braided down her back. "Young lady," she said sternly, "whatever is the meaning of this?"

"Mrs. Hudson, you're all right, thank goodness," Sally gasped out, trying to catch her breath. "John has been kidnapped. Where are Beth and Mr. Holmes—are they here?"

The older woman's frown deepened. "Who?" She shook her head. "My dear, I've no idea what you're talking about—but if there has been an abduction, then why haven't you gone to the police?!"

Sally stared, panic blossoming in her chest. "But we met this morning! You…" John had seen a dead man alive once more, and the Doctor warned against apocalyptic happenings, but surely… Her eyes widened in horror at a niggling idea. _Please let me be wrong_. "Oh, God… I'm sorry, I just…" She pushed past Mrs. Hudson as gently as she could, running to the older woman's bedroom—no sign of Beth's duffel, which wasn't conclusive in and of itself: Beth could have taken it elsewhere.

Mrs. Hudson followed her, sounding outraged. "What in the name of…?!"

Sally ran through the kitchen and up the stairs as best she could, hampered a bit by her Victorian clothing, threw open the sitting room door… and slumped against the doorpost, nearly fainting. No chemistry set, no books, no Stradivarius case, no newspapers… no sign that John or Sherlock had ever lived here. Something was terribly, _horrifically_ wrong with Reality… Her head hurt… or maybe that was her chest… or both…

Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs, sounding fierce and stern. "Madam, you will leave my house this instant, or _I_ shall summon the police! In all my born days, I never saw such…" She drew nearer, and her voice softened. "Madam?"

The change in tone finally brought tears to Sally's eyes, the tears that she'd been holding in and gathering up ever since she and John left Baker Street. She looked Mrs. Hudson in the eye and saw no recognition, but so much compassion. Sally opened her mouth, but what could she say? She could hardly tell the other woman the truth—Mrs. Hudson would think her even more mad than she already did. Sally shook her head helplessly. After a few seconds, she said hoarsely, "I'm sorry." She stood, swaying a bit on her feet, and started to descend the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson followed her again, voice now sharp with concern. "Madam!" She took Sally's arm and looked her over, plainly not liking what she saw. Sally could only imagine what a mess she must have looked like. "My dear, are you ill? Shall I fetch a doctor?"

Sally blanched. _No, I want_ _ **my**_ _doctor..._ "Please," she whispered, "I need to go…"

"My dear," Mrs. Hudson said, kindly but firmly, "you're in no fit state to be wandering the streets—especially not in this weather, you'll catch your death!" She began to lead Sally down the stairs. "Come along with me, now, and I'll make us some tea."

Sally understood now how Mrs. Hudson was able to handle Sherlock Holmes all these years; the thought forced a small, sobbing laugh out of her. "Just for tea," she murmured, "thank you… then I have to go. I have a friend out there... she might be a little lost." Poor Beth—did she know _anything_ about this? And what about Sherlock? As much of a jerk as he'd been since Sally had entered his life, she wouldn't wish a meeting with his landlady now on him. If she had to venture a guess, she'd say that he loved possessively and fiercely, and meeting Mrs. Hudson now would probably be a terrible shock.

Mrs. Hudson looked at her strangely but refrained from commenting. She ushered Sally into the kitchen, planted her in a comfortable chair by the extinguished but still-warm kitchen range, stoked the fire, and put the kettle on to boil. "I don't mean to pry, my dear," she said hesitantly, "but what is your name? Despite your knowing mine, I am sorry to say that I cannot recall our ever being introduced."

Sally thought of the men who took John, who blatantly threatened her… and shook her head. "I'm sorry. For both our sakes, I think it's better that you don't know."

Mrs. Hudson gave a mild snort. "My dear, I have buried a husband and raised a daughter—I am hardly a stranger to trouble!" She looked at Sally searchingly, eyes daring her to lie. "Do you at least have a place to stay tonight?"

Sally shook her head. "No, but neither does my friend, and I have to find her."

Mrs. Hudson arched a stern eyebrow. "Well, if your friend has any more sense than you—" her tone implied that this wouldn't be difficult; "she will already have found shelter, and you could do no better than to inquire for her when you call at Scotland Yard tomorrow." She took the whistling kettle off the hob and started to warm the teapot. "Until then, you are most welcome to stay here."

Sally sighed, realising that she wasn't going to get anywhere by arguing with this particularly indomitable woman. "Thank you," she said softly. She was going to have to slip out at the first opportunity. With that in mind, she slid a hand down to her boots and started to unlace them—when she left, she'd have to go in her stocking feet to avoid making noise.

Mrs. Hudson set the brewing teapot on the table along with cups and saucers, and smiled in approval. "That's right, dear, you make yourself at home. I'll just go and see to your room, I shan't be long." She bustled out of the kitchen and down the front hall.

Sally watched her wistfully and glanced longingly at the tea… but she couldn't. She had to get out of here, for Mrs. Hudson's sake as much as her own. And Beth's—she had to find her. _Okay,_ _ **shift**_. Her boots in hand, she slipped out of the kitchen, eased the back door open and closed behind her, and ran. The cobblestones beneath her thinly-protected feet were cold and hard, and running over them like this was torture… but _everything_ hurt right now. She started to sob, unable to hold back any longer.

She stumbled, caught herself, and swayed unsteadily. She couldn't go much further—she was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Hobbling to the nearest wall, she leaned against it, boots slipping from nerveless fingers. She couldn't remember ever feeling more thoroughly miserable.

A hiss sounded nearby from the fog. "Psst! Oi, mum!"

Sally's head snapped up, scanning her surroundings for the source of the sound. "Who's there?" She tensed instinctively, adrenaline flooding her, ready to run—Victorian London at night was hardly the safest place on earth. "What do you want?"

"S'all roight, mum," the voice said hastily, a boy's voice: "ain't no one goin' ter 'urt yer. Yer the doctor's bit o' jam, ain't yer?"

Catching her breath once more, she frowned in confusion. "What?"

The invisible boy sighed and spoke more slowly, as if to a small child. "Dr. Watson? Yer 'is lady frien', roight?" His tone turned faintly accusing. "Oi seen the two o' yer scootin' orf t'gether."

She tensed again. "I'm his _wife_ ," she said defensively. She took a slow, shuddering breath, trying to calm herself. "Are you one of the Irregulars?"

"Blimey!" A red-haired boy, eleven-ish, materialised out of the gloom, staring at Sally. He shook his head, grinning. "Cor, oo'd've thought the doctor'd let hisself get 'ammered twoice!" He sobered then and nodded down at Sally's boots. "Yer'll want ter put them daisies back on, mum. Ain't many cobbles where we're goin'."

Studying the boy, she nodded and started to put the boots back on. He looked very much one's stereotypical Victorian street urchin, tattered clothes and grimy skin, the poor thing. "My name is Sally," she said softly. "What's yours?"

He hesitated for just a moment, then shrugged. "Call me Nat—" he grinned again suddenly—"loike the bug. S'good ter meet yer, mum." He held out a grubby hand.

She smiled in spite of herself and barely hesitated to take his hand, shaking it firmly. "Good to meet _you_ , Nat."

He nodded approvingly. "An' we got ter scarper now, mum, the others'll be waitin'." He jerked his head at the fog.

She inhaled in a hiss but nodded. Of course, there was still a chance that she could be walking into a trap… but she also had precious few options at the moment. The Irregulars were probably her best chance at reuniting with Beth and Sherlock and hopefully getting John back. "All right." She pushed herself off the wall and took a step forward, looking expectantly at Nat.

He trotted off and led her through the murky alleys without faltering. "Yer a roight bricky one, Missus Watson." He grinned encouragingly. "Don' worry, we'll get the doctor back, we will: us an' the Guv'nor!"

"I hope so…"

* * *

Holmes reached the front steps of 221B, and halted one last time, listening intently. Still no sound of any other footsteps or police whistles, thank God - he could finally let himself breathe easy.

He was aware that Mrs. Hudson would have locked the door hours ago... but the detective groaned in dismay on finding that his keyring was missing from his coat pocket. A hurried search of his other pockets proved equally fruitless, all of them were entirely empty! What on earth? His lockpicks were gone, his matches, even his handkerchief. He couldn't have dropped _everything_ in his flight, could he? He heaved a deep sigh, letting his forehead thud onto the doorpost – what else could go wrong?

Well, it was no use trying to retrace his steps in this fog without his lantern, and he certainly wouldn't be getting anywhere near Oberstein's house again tonight. Even if he hadn't been forced to leave his burglar tools at the scene, that confounded constable would doubtless have called for backup and set a guard. He'd have to see Lestrade in the morning and explain the circumstances – and he wasn't looking forward to that interview in the least, the Inspector would probably laugh himself into stitches over his colleague's blunder.

In the meantime... he caught himself yawning and shook his head. Tomorrow was another day, and he was desperately in need of rest. He'd better go around the back and wake Mrs. Hudson... well, maybe he'd try his bedroom window first.

He tensed as the noise of an approaching carriage broke in on his thoughts – too close by half, he chided himself, he should have noticed that sound long before. This might be his own front door, but it still wouldn't do for anyone to remember that they'd seen Sherlock Holmes out-of-doors on the night of an attempted burglary! He made to swing himself over the railings of the area to hide, like he'd meant to do at Caulfield Gardens, but it was already too late. A four-wheeler had emerged from the fog, and – Holmes stared in disbelief as the carriage pulled up right before the house – one of its passengers looked all too familiar. He could never forget that face, last seen beside the Empire State Express...

 _...ice-cold wind in his face, the screech of brakes... 'Just how fast_ _ **can**_ _you run, Doctor?'..._

Holmes didn't recognise the other Torchwood agent disembarking, but it hardly mattered. Jones had been far more of an evil-minded bastard than Peterson, the type you never wanted to meet in a dark alley, and the sadistic glint in his eye made Holmes's flesh crawl.

"Morning, Mr. Holmes." Jones tutted in mock disapproval. "What time d'you call this?"

Holmes favoured him with a bland smile. "Good morning, Jenkins." He knew he wasn't doing himself any favours by baiting the man, but he simply couldn't resist. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Jones gave him a cheerful grin, looking entirely unruffled. "What, the Great Detective can't deduce the reason? You should feel honoured, Mr. Holmes – you're being granted an audience with the top man himself."

The same man who would have done God-only-knew-what to Nikola Tesla, for the sake of achieving immortality... Holmes's lips tightened, eyes narrowed. "And if I decline the honour?"

But he already knew the answer, which Jones confirmed by looking pointedly past him at the front door, hand on his coat pocket. "Then we're to extend the invitation further."

As if Holmes would stand for Beth or Mrs. Hudson being used as bargaining chips – and this... _katorg_ knew it. "I see," the detective said evenly, giving Jones a mirthless smile. "Well, in the face of such kind entreaties, how can I refuse?" His eyes were full of grim warning, although he was perfectly aware that any Torchwood agent's sense of honour was dubious at best. "After you, gentlemen."

The second agent got back into the carriage, and Jones gestured for Holmes to go next. The detective climbed in warily, senses on full alert as he seated himself – but he remained unmolested, for the moment, Jones merely climbing in after him and rapping on the roof to signal the driver. The windows were covered, of course, but one of Holmes's favourite pastimes when starting out on his career had been riding in a cab blindfolded, learning the streets through the motion of the cab and the sound of the horse's hooves. Admittedly, he was a little out of practice, but it could do no harm to try. He only wished he could trust his fellow passengers enough to close his eyes.

* * *

From the front window of Camden House across the street from 221B, Beth swore as Sherlock was escorted into a covered four-wheeler. That was definitely a kidnapping. She'd been so relieved to see him return in one piece, and now this! The carriage drove off, and she bolted out the front door after it, sticking to the shadows.

Her feet felt ready to fall off. As luck would have it, she had run across Will on the way to Baker Street, and he'd led her back. And not without a few choice words about fool girls wandering lost and alone at night in London (not that she'd entirely disagreed with him). It wasn't until after he'd left her that she'd realised she hadn't asked him about her phone—which would have been useful right now, zed it! She could have called Sally and alerted the Watsons about what had happened.

If she was perfectly honest, Beth would have liked nothing more than to just fall into bed in 221B, but Sherlock could be in serious danger, and no one else knew about it. This time, he definitely needed her.

She just wished she didn't feel ready to collapse.

* * *

 **Ria:** And the plot thickens further... *shiver* Who is this mysterious head of Torchwood, and what does he want with our boys? Stay tuned for the last chapter!

 **Sky:** And please review!


	8. Always 1895

**==Chapter 8==**

 **Always 1895**

 _Everyone has their weak spot. The one thing that, despite your best efforts, will always bring you to your knees, regardless of how strong you are otherwise._

– Sarah Dessen, Lock and Key

Holmes had lost his bearings long before the end of the journey. It seemed he'd been too long out of practice, the unused data cleared from his brain attic to make room for what he had needed to know while travelling in the TARDIS. He was blindfolded before alighting from the carriage, hurried across a small cobbled yard and up a couple of steps, and a door closed behind him before he was allowed to take the blindfold off, blinking in the gaslight of a downstairs hall. This appeared to be the back of an ordinary-looking middle class dwelling, very similar to Watson's old residence, on the few occasions he'd visited.

Next moment, footsteps sounded at the front of the house, and a figure appeared at the far end of the hall. Holmes's breath caught in his throat as he saw the man's profile: a thin projecting nose under a high, bald forehead... a long, grizzled moustache... and a pair of cruel blue eyes... Dear God, it _couldn't_ be!

He heard Jones snickering behind him, clearly enjoying his patent astonishment. "Told you he'd be no trouble, Colonel."

Colonel Moran arched a sardonic eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk, but the savage gleam in his eye had not diminished since the last time they'd met at Camden House - Holmes could almost feel the shikari's pitiless grip on his throat once more. If Watson hadn't been with him...

An involuntary shiver ran through him as the realisation hit, the hardest it had done since leaving for Aldgate: _Watson wasn't here_. Holmes was utterly alone, unarmed, surrounded by enemies, and no one who wished him well could have the least idea of where he was.

He tried to comfort himself with the thought that Moran clearly wasn't the one in charge here, even Jones would never address a superior in that fashion. The Colonel might have been recruited for his particular talents, but it was unlikely that his employer would go to all this trouble just so that Moran could have revenge on the man who had killed his general and sent him to prison. As for what Torchwood _did_ want with Holmes... the detective didn't even dare speculate without more data.

"Delightful to see you again, Moran," he greeted as cheerfully as he could manage, "it's been too long. I hope Pentonville was to your liking?"

Moran's eyes glittered with barely controlled fury, but his malicious smirk grew wider still. His only words before exiting were to the three agents: "Search him and clean him up, the Director's waiting."

* * *

After a humiliating experience, for which hot water and a fresh suit of clothes didn't compensate at all, Holmes was escorted to the room from where the Colonel had first appeared: a comfortably furnished study on the ground floor. His guards remained in the hall, looking downright thankful as they closed the door behind him, but Holmes was given no time to wonder about any of it.

A soft, well-spoken voice came from the depths of an enormous wing-backed chair which faced the fireplace. "Welcome back to the nineteenth century, Mr. Holmes. So charming to see you once again." The speaker's face and figure remained hidden for the moment, but there was no mistaking that voice...

Holmes could only remember being that thunderstruck when seeing the outside of the TARDIS for the first time. "…Moriarty…" The word emerged as a strangled whisper. Colouring, he hastily pulled himself together – it would never do to confront his returned nemesis with his mouth hanging open! He cleared his throat and attempted a calmer response. "Greetings, Professor. I wondered if our paths would ever cross again."

The gleam in his host's eye as he rose and turned to face Holmes told him that his astonishment had been noted and greatly appreciated. The face was that of a much younger man's, but even so… Without a doubt, Professor James Moriarty stood before the detective, however impossible such a turn of events might have seemed previously. "Whereas I, my dear sir, was absolutely certain of it. You and trouble do appear to be boon companions, do you not?" Moriarty's lips quirked. "Now, who does that remind me of? Ah yes, myself."

"Indeed, sir." Holmes arched a casual eyebrow, all the while burning with curiosity. "If you don't object to my asking, how is it that you are still alive, and apparently in decidedly better health than when I last saw you?" _Plunging down a damned waterfall, no less, you evil bastard! How the_ _ **hell**_ _did you even survive that?!_

The skin around Moriarty's eyes tightened. "As you say: apparently. Do enlighten me as to any deductions you have made thus far. I cannot imagine there are none." The Professor's smile turned benign, spreading his hands invitingly.

Holmes returned the smile scornfully. "That you imagine yourself worthy of such an honour is highly amusing, sir – although you've clearly been observing my more recent activities." And just how long _had_ the man been monitoring his and Watson's comings and goings in the TARDIS? His mind raced as he attempted to recall any details since Moran's arrest last year which might have indicated they were being watched, even if he had failed to note their import at the time.

Moriarty chuckled. "Longer than you might think, Holmes – far longer."

Holmes's eyes narrowed as a chill crawled down his spine. "And no doubt you intend to enlighten me eventually, so shall we dispense with inane theatrics?"

The Professor arched an eyebrow. "Already quite disappointing. I really had expected better."

Holmes inclined his head mockingly. "How gratifying. But I highly doubt you sought this interview for the purpose of mere flattery." Bluntly: "What do you want?" He'd already had enough fun and games for one evening, thank you _very_ much.

His host sighed and gestured at the chair before his desk. "Do have a seat – we shall be here for some time." And the last words seemed curiously emphasised, although Holmes had no clue to their significance as yet.

Moriarty moved to his own chair to sit, but Holmes would be hanged if he allowed himself to relax a fraction of an inch whilst in the presence of an enemy, however respected. His upper lip curled slightly, unbidden. "You seem oddly confident, sir, that I would be willing to grant you so much undivided attention."

Moriarty leaned back in his chair easily and gracefully, fingers steepled. "Because you have questions, and I have answers."

Holmes's ears pricked at those words, although he did his best to preserve a casual façade. Leaning against the nearest wall, he folded his arms and allowed his eyelids to droop lazily. "I suppose my next pressing engagement can suffer a few minutes' delay," he drawled. "I trust you'll make it worth my while."

The Professor shook his head. "Really, Holmes. Not only do you not have a pressing engagement, but I think it unlikely that you shall ever have one again. Nor, I believe, shall it even be through any fault of mine." He sighed in seeming resignation. "But you wish this to be worth your while. Very well. Shall I tell you about myself, the Doctor, or Torchwood first?"

The detective shrugged offhandedly to conceal his rising uneasiness. "Whatever you wish, Professor – the floor is yours."

"The beginning, I suppose, will suffice. You must know by now that there are certain holes in reality. Rifts in the fabric of Time and Space. It is my belief that you are aware of the Cardiff Rift."

Holmes fervently hoped he didn't sound as dismayed as he felt. "As are you, Professor, it seems – what of it?"

Moriarty gave him a long, hard stare before speaking. "The Reichenbach Falls contains another such rift." The solemnity in his voice told an aghast Holmes that he was speaking the absolute truth. "I fell into that rift and saw it. The entirety of Time and Space, in all its horror and majesty… and it was _breathtaking_. In quite the anticlimax to such an experience, I continued to fall and passed right through the Cardiff Rift into the city, but in quite the wrong year. Christmas of 1869, to be precise."

Holmes's face now felt entirely numb – he was certain he was white as a sheet.

"I had the dubious privilege of meeting and knowing Mr. Charles Dickens in the months before his death – a singular man." Moriarty chuckled again, and the detective had a sudden recollection of hearing of the celebrated author's passing as a young man – heart failure, apparently, with no hint of foul play… "By the middle of 1870, I made a startling realisation: I was growing no older. In two years, I knew for a certainty that I was, in fact, growing younger. Passing through two Rifts had taken its toll on my body, in the form of aging in reverse. Hence my appearance."

In spite of the situation, Holmes couldn't quite hide a smile at the bitter note in the man's voice, although he was able to turn his snort of laughter into a cough. Professor Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, dying of _youth_? That had to be the best news he'd ever heard! "My sympathies, sir – however, you still have not managed to convey what you want of me." He favoured the Professor with a deep and patently false expression of concern. "I certainly hope your traumatic experience has not adversely affected your considerable mental faculties." His voice was laden with condescension. "A truly tragic loss to the field of mathematics, not to mention the criminal classes."

There was yet another dry chuckle. "Very well, sir, have your little jokes. We have all the time in the world – quite literally." Moriarty shook his head in wonder as the hair on the back of Holmes's neck began to lift. "You cannot even sense it, can you? Time is screaming as it slows, and you cannot hear it." He tilted his head and closed his eyes, looking for all the world as if he were listening to something just out of range of his audience's ears. " _I_ can hear it, Holmes. There is music in the ebb and flow of Time… and that music is ending."

His sense of dread rapidly growing, Holmes drew nearer to Moriarty for the first time since he'd entered. He stared into the man's eyes – there _was_ an all-too-familiar look in them, one that he had seen many a time in another pair of eyes, alien and ancient. _Those_ eyes, however, concealed a mind which was at least able to interpret and manage such terrible data! How in the multiverse had Moriarty avoided going insane – had he even done so? And yet… there was no fevered gleam in the depths of Moriarty's gaze, only a cold, calm assurance, hard as a diamond and equally clear. _Merciful God…_

Moriarty smiled slowly, clearly relishing his opponent's reaction. "Oh, yes, Holmes, I am indeed as Time-sensitive as your precious Doctor. I cannot control it, as a Time Lord can, but I can sense its movements. I can sense the Fixed Points in your own life, Holmes – those that have occured for you and those that have yet to occur. And Time is now splintering right around you as if it were glass and you had struck it."

A chill swept through Holmes as he realised what Moriarty must be referring to. His mind went back over all the details of the case thus far – what crucial detail had he overlooked? As far as he was aware, the only thing that had not gone completely to plan was… his breaking into the house at Caulfield Gardens… "Oh, dear Lord," he whispered, mouth now dry with horror. Now he knew why Moriarty had waited until this moment to issue his 'invitation'.

Moriarty spread out his hands in a laudatory gesture. "Congratulations, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you have accomplished what no other, to date, has done. You have brought about the End or – perhaps more properly, the Freezing – of Time itself."

For a moment, Holmes thought he might be in danger of falling over. Thoughts still reeling from the Professor's revelation, he drew himself up, eyes flashing. "Which is no doubt exactly what you hoped for, sir! I severely doubt that this occurence is my doing alone." And he _would_ _not_ believe that so simple an error could have such disastrous consequences on its own, especially not when there was still a chance to put things right – there must be! He still had time to recover the plans, Oberstein could not have sold them yet… could he?

"My dear Holmes, there was little that required my influence. Your own nature and the Doctor quite settled the thing. All of Time and Space… you saw your share of wonders… but you experienced your share of horrors, as well. The rest was quite, shall we say, elementary?"

The detective's lips tightened at Moriarty's smirk, entirely unflattered by the quote. "Indeed?"

Moriarty heaved the sigh of a teacher disappointed with his pupil. "In another reality, you should have been able to accomplish this particular Fixed Point, Holmes. The fact that you did not implies that a variable entered the equation. The Doctor lured you away to grand adventures, but those experiences changed you, and quite a different Sherlock Holmes returned to London in 1895."

Holmes interrupted his host, voice sharp with contemptuous anger. "Shall we leave the Doctor out of this conversation, sir? Your concern is clearly not with him, or he would doubtless be present for this interview." And where the devil _was_ the Doctor? Despite his lingering resentment at the Time Lord's sending him home, Holmes would have been immensely glad to see him at this very moment.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, studying him. "And you stand by him yet. Remarkable. But how swiftly would you fly to his defence, Holmes, if you truly knew him?"

The detective folded his arms defensively. "The Doctor keeps his own counsel – what of that? And how much would a monster like yourself truly know of such a man, time-sensitive or not?" Even with his enhanced mental powers, the Professor could hardly be expected to comprehend the infinite debt that the Earth, not to mention the entire cosmos, owed to the Time Lord.

"Well, you may doubt me if you wish, sir." Moriarty eyed Holmes speculatively. "I first learnt of the Doctor from Mr. Dickens, but it was not until the founding of the Torchwood Institute in 1879 that I had the opportunity to get the measure of the Doctor, and track his movements through history. Some good done, true, but so much more damage…"

Holmes stared. "My God… the psychic message… that was _you_." All this time, Moriarty had been training Torchwood agents to see the TARDIS. "My sympathies, _Professor_ ," he smiled mockingly. "Peterson must have been such a sad disappointment."

Moriarty smiled thinly back. "Peterson was a privileged idiot, and Jones is a man with little social status but infinitely more brains. Had Jones been in charge of the mission, the TARDIS might be in our warehouse now. Even a severely secret organisation, it seems, must play politics… until an agent, regrettably, is killed in the line of duty."

Holmes's lip curled in disgust, understanding perfectly. "Indeed – although perhaps it isn't so surprising that an operative of yours misinterpreted 'capture' as 'destroy'."

Moriarty arched an eyebrow. "But an operative of the _Queen's_ should know better. And now the TARDIS is lost to me a second time. I doubt very much that she is doing well at the moment."

"What?!" Holmes paled, fists clenching in fury. "Moriarty, what have you done?"

"Nothing," came the maddeningly serene response. "It is simply my understanding that the TARDIS is a little… shall we say, preoccupied? The Doctor should not be capable of interfering in my plans for quite some time, if ever."

Holmes's breath caught in his throat, now white as a sheet as he made the connection. Given what he knew about Rift energy, he could easily imagine what effect a broken Fixed Point might have on the Rift itself – and the Doctor had parked the TARDIS right over it!

Moriarty interrupted the detective's horrified musings: "Holmes, what do you know for a fact about the Doctor's past?"

"Enough," Holmes responded warily, with a nasty suspicion that he was about to learn a lot more than he wanted to.

"What has he told you, I wonder, of the Last Great Time War? Has he told you of the battles he waged?" Moriarty shook his head as Holmes stared at him, rendered speechless yet again. "The Time Lord who abhorred violence… allowed himself to become a soldier. And a murderer, at the end, of the very worst kind. In the final days of the war, Gallifrey became Time-Locked alongside the Dalek armada…" Moriarty cut short his own narrative to gaze at Holmes in amusement. "He told you none of this, did he?" The Professor gave an incredulous laugh. "Oh, Doctor, Doctor… how you always ensure your own demise."

The detective reached blindly to grasp the back of the chair he had been offered earlier, the blood draining rapidly from his face once more.

Moriarty rose to his feet, his immense enjoyment of this moment clear in his expression. "Your precious Time Lord, my dear Holmes, ended the war by destroying nearly the entirety of the Dalek race… and his very own people. The Doctor destroyed every last member of his kind, including his own family: children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren… He wiped them out of existence in one Moment."

"No…" was the only thing a frozen Holmes could manage to choke out. It couldn't be true! Not the Doctor… Moriarty was lying, he had to be! The detective had simply overlooked the signs on this occasion – hardly surprising, given the circumstances.

"More than two billion children on Gallifrey that day, Holmes. They burned… Our English word for healer: 'doctor'… It came from him, you know. How very ironic that we should have such a word from such a creature. The Daleks' name for him was far more apt: the Oncoming Storm."

Holmes flinched involuntarily at the memory.

Moriarty continued on, unrelenting. "The being who rips into a world and then rips his way back out of it, leaving the innocent to pick up the pieces and rebuild alone and unaided."

The detective set his teeth, feeling more ill than ever, but prepared to do battle nonetheless. "That does not sound entirely unfamiliar, sir."

"Quite so. It reminds me of someone else I know." His host tilted his head, pretending to consider. "Ah yes, the Great Detective. The man who has quite aided and abetted the Oncoming Storm in his havoc, and has created considerable chaos in his own wake."

"No!" Holmes cut across Moriarty's diatribe, outraged, his eyes blazing with fury. "How dare you, sir! I have dedicated my life to the thwarting of evil, not the upholding of it!" He shook his head in disgust, all reserves of patience long since exhausted. "I trust you have said all you wish to say, as I have no more time to waste in this fruitless and, quite frankly, demeaning exchange of insults. If your intent was to garner sympathy for your situation, my _dear_ sir, I am afraid you have failed miserably."

Moriarty just looked at him coolly. "And where will you go? What will you do?"

Holmes swept him a look of scathing contempt. Did the man really expect a candid response? Turning his back on Moriarty, he started towards the door – not that he expected to get very far, but it was the principle of the thing! Then suddenly a commotion erupted in the next room: the sounds of a scuffle, grunts of effort from Moran, and a very angry female voice… Holmes stopped dead in renewed horror as he recognised it, his blood turning to ice. _Beth... you little_ _ **fool**_ _! What possessed you to follow me?! I gave you the strictest orders…_

Next moment, the door burst open and Moran appeared, struggling with a kicking, shouting Beth Lestrade. "Let me _go_! You zedding–" Then suddenly the girl's gaze fell on Moriarty, and she too froze, eyes wide with recognition and disbelief. "Oh, zed."

Moriarty stared intently back at Beth.

Moran took advantage of his prize's immobility to get a more secure grip. "Apologies, Professor. I can't think how she managed to get inside in the first place."

Moriarty's voice was distant. "Indeed… heads _must_ roll, my dear Colonel – they really should know better by now." To Beth, "I had thought I sensed a paradox…" His gaze shifted to follow Beth's as she stared pleadingly at Holmes.

Holmes, meanwhile, was also staring at Beth, doing his subtle best to appear even more surprised than Moriarty. If the man knew they were acquainted… "Corrupting young females now, Moriarty?" he tutted. "That is a new low, even for you."

Moriarty glanced between the two, darkly amused. "I would make some jest about allowing young girls into your force of Irregulars, Holmes, but I know better." He strode toward Beth, who was still struggling in Moran's hold. "This one is out of her Time. The woman who ought to be one of the finest detectives New Scotland Yard will ever see…" Moriarty grasped her chin, making her freeze and look up at him. "And her own 'hero' has ensured that she will never have been born."

Beth's eyes were wide with fear and confusion, unable to look away. "How can I be here if I was never born? How does that even make any sense?"

Moriarty's head began to oscillate gently. "Hence the paradox, Miss Lestrade. The Freezing of Time at once ensured that you would never be born and yet guaranteed your safety, at least as long as you were near the epicenter of the fractures." The smile turned abruptly to a sympathetic frown. "Quite a shame, but I am afraid that you shall have to make a – shall we say – heroic sacrifice?"

Holmes's eyes widened in alarm as Beth shuddered, the girl's body unconsciously relaxing as she watched the hypnotic movement. "You have me, Moriarty – why not let her go? What kind of a threat can a temporal impossibility pose to frozen Time? It was my Fixed Point which was broken, after all." He hoped fervently that the girl would pick up on the message he was attempting to relay. Like her ancestor, she was clever enough in her own way, and if he had to trust this information to anyone else right now, he would much prefer it to be her. Two people being in possession of the facts stood a much greater chance than one of setting Time back on its proper course.

Moriarty released Beth, stroking her face a moment before turning back to Holmes, his expression severe. "The most serious threat. Such a paradox would be dangerous in – what shall we call it? – normal Time. But such paradoxes can now threaten the very existence of Reality itself; it cannot compensate forever for a child who should not exist."

Beth look pleadingly back at Holmes. "Sherlock, is he right? 'Cos I'm getting a really bad feeling that he is."

There was much Holmes would have given to deny it, but there was no trace of a lie in Moriarty's voice. All the same, he'd be damned if he would give the villain the satisfaction of hearing him confirm it, either – not to _her_ … He ignored the question, addressing Moriarty. "That is neither here nor there, sir. You do not have the right to play God with people's destinies. If you harm this young woman, you shall answer to me."

"You were fortunate once, Holmes; however, I would consider quite carefully before making that play again." Moriarty smiled a grim warning.

"Well, waterfalls might be a little scarce in London," Holmes drawled, with a band of steel in his voice, "but I'm willing to improvise."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "If you think that your presence here is the only card I hold in my hand, you are grievously mistaken. Hairline cracks in Reality are already radiating from her. Reality will eventually implode, and your less-than-lady friend would die anyway, along with all other life on this world."

Holmes shivered, his next words bitter in his mouth. "So you offer, sir, in your _humble_ opinion, the lesser of two tragedies?"

"It is scarcely my offer, Holmes – merely the truth. One or the other must occur." Moriarty raised an eyebrow, the rest of his expression carved from stone, unmoved and unyielding as the Doctor's could admittedly be.

"Sherlock… I don't want to die." Beth's quiet, trembling voice stabbed Holmes to the heart . "But I don't want to pull the rest of the world down with me, either."

Moriarty sighed theatrically. "Such nobility."

Holmes shook his head, aghast. "Beth, no, you can't…" He turned back to Moriarty, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable – his nemesis would like nothing more at this moment than to hear him beg. "Moriarty, you said Reality would not collapse immediately. You may not hold the Doctor in high esteem, but surely he can help us find a solution." Surely the Time Lord would be able to reconstruct Tesla's invention…

Moriarty's steely voice cut across his. "I should think the Doctor is quite occupied with his own troubles – the broken Point must surely have roused wild activity in the Earth's Rifts, and the TARDIS was last seen on the Cardiff Rift. Mending a broken Point would be quite difficult – perhaps nigh on impossible. And why would you suppose that the Doctor would ever attempt to find a way to solve my particular dilemma?"

Holmes stared, incredulous. "Why would he not, if only to keep Reality from collapsing?" He spread his hands beseechingly, imploring the man to understand. "I have seen him in his role of avenging Time Lord, it is true, but he is also capable of the greatest mercy."

Moriarty shook his head. "As well as the greatest cruelty. Your word I would trust, but you have no control over the Oncoming Storm, and I have no desire to be swept aside by his power." He turned to the Colonel. "Moran."

Moran shifted his hold on Beth slightly and drew a revolver; the bloodthirsty gleam in his eye made Holmes feel as if he'd been punched in the gut.

Beth's face was white, eyes filling with tears. "Oh my gosh. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry…"

The detective was frozen to the spot, his thoughts whirling. Even if he'd had the power to act, one wrong move might very well have resulted in the young woman having a bullet put through her, anyhow! "Beth…" he managed to whisper. _Forgive me, Elizabeth – I cannot save you!_

Moriarty sighed again. "And _that_ , my dear Holmes, is why, in the end, you will always lose." He nodded at Moran, who placed the muzzle hard against Beth's temple.

Beth gave Holmes a heart-rending look of sorrow and regret. "I lo–"

The same moment as Moran's finger tightened on the trigger, all hell broke loose. Well, the window did, at least – blowing inwards in an impressive explosion, showering the room and its shocked occupants with a myriad shards of glass.

Jolted free of his paralysis, Holmes didn't waste a moment in questioning the miraculous event. Without even getting back on his feet, he dived straight at Moran, who had mercifully lost his grip on his captive when the concussion from the blast had knocked him backwards. Ears ringing, he grappled for the revolver the Colonel was still holding, shouting back over his shoulder at the stunned Beth, who was only just beginning to recover. "Run, Beth – _run!_ "

Beth scrambled to her feet and dashed for what remained of the window, avoiding Moriarty's desperate lunge as he finished picking himself up off the floor; jumped straight through the gaping hole and vanished from sight. The sound of running footsteps outside told the detective she'd landed without mishap and was wasting no time in making good on her escape. _Godspeed, my dear…_

The next moment, agony lanced through Holmes's shoulders and arms, bringing his wrestling match with Moran to an abrupt end as he slumped to the ground once more. Through a haze of pain, he heard Moriarty issue the terse instruction to his second-in-command: "Get after the girl and shoot her down, Moran. Whatever it takes."

"Yes, sir." The Colonel's heavy footsteps exited the room rapidly as others rushed in, probably the guards.

Holmes managed to roll over onto his back, gasping, "Bad luck, old man."

Still holding the pistol he must have used to strike the detective down, Moriarty planted his boot on Holmes's right shoulder, regarding him for a moment… then pressed down, hard. "You will regret that, my boy."

Holmes gritted his teeth against the fresh pain, refusing to cry out, glaring at his captor defiantly.

"Your precious Time Lord is unable to come back to fix your mistakes for you," Moriarty hissed venomously. The Professor had lost much of his cherished impassivity – the blanching detective was amused to note that, even without the signs of aging, a furious Moriarty still greatly resembled a coiled cobra. "And Sebastian Moran shan't fail to hunt down a young girl, whoever special she should have been."

Holmes grinned shakily, grunting, "He'll have to catch her first…"

"You eluded him because of your intellect," Moriarty snapped, eyes gleaming with malice. "What advantage do you think she possesses?"

The detective laughed derisively. "India has done little to prepare the _dear_ Colonel for this particular tigress. I don't envy him his newest hunt, not in the least!"

Moriarty ground down forcefully into his shoulder. "With your own personal physician in custody now, you mock at your own risk, Holmes, as well as his." A fresh stab of combined agony and horror lanced through the detective at the ominous announcement. In the midst of all the commotion, he had forgotten that Watson was still out there with his wife, adrift from both the TARDIS and Baker Street, totally vulnerable. And yet… Moriarty had made no mention of Sally! Could it be that he was simply… _unaware_ that Watson had remarried? _How_ was that possible?

Holmes smothered the guilt rising in his breast and swiftly called to mind all the hurtful words Watson had flung at him just before he'd stormed out, using them to fuel what he hoped was a credibly scornful response. "For all your observation, Professor, you seem to have overlooked one rather crucial detail: what makes you think Dr. Watson and I have any further interest in each other's welfare?" The Professor was _not_ going to use Holmes's former friend and colleague against him as well, not this time.

Moriarty smiled sagely. "Whatever breach exists between you two, it is not wide enough yet, I think, to have you stand idly by and watch as, say, the Doctor's bad shoulder is shot once more?"

Holmes stiffened his back and gave the Professor his best impression of a marble statue, cold and detached. "As I said, my dear sir, you may do as you please. I care not. Whatever ties existed between us have been severed, decades from now."

His host raised an aristocratic eyebrow. "Indeed? And yet you claim not to 'uphold evil'." Moriarty shook his head with an ironic smile. "My dear sir, you shall have to make up your mind one way or the other – indecision is a terrible thing."

Holmes shrugged his free shoulder as casually as he could through the pain. "I have no particular interest in seeing the man harmed, but your pathetic attempt to use him as emotional blackmail will avail you nothing, sir. He is no more or less to me now than the next person on the street." And convincing his host of that during the approaching confrontation would demand the greatest performance of his entire career. _Forgive me, Watson... this is all I can do for either of us._

Moriarty regarded him calmly. "And the Great Detective would so easily allow a complete stranger to come to grief? Nevertheless, Holmes, I am afraid I know better. Your experiences with the Doctor may have changed you, but certainly not enough to allow a good man like John Watson to be harmed. But Time shall tell, yes?" He removed his foot from Holmes's throbbing shoulder and bent down to murmur chillingly in the detective's ear. "You see, my dear Holmes, I have nothing _but_ Time. I have all of Eternity to do whatever I wish with you. And not even your considerable will, I think, can hold out literally forever."

* * *

 _(Scene rating: V. Recap of events in Chapter 1 of next episode.)_

John Watson arrived with no more pomp and circumstance than had his friend, and considerably less at that, given the blindfold. Moriarty glanced back and forth between a very still and impassive Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, whose blindfold was being removed. The tension radiating from both men was nearly a tangible thing, so thick was it.

"Welcome to Torchwood, Dr. Watson," Moriarty said simply.

Watson stared at the older man as if he found him vaguely familiar… then the doctor noted Holmes's presence. His hazel eyes narrowed as he gave a stiff nod. "Mr. Holmes," he said shortly, before turning to Moriarty. "And you, sir? I do not believe I have had the pleasure." His voice all but dragged with the weight of its own irony.

Glancing again between the former friends, Moriarty smirked slightly, quite amused. He shook his head at their childishness and said, "Ah, forgive me, Doctor. James Moriarty, at your service." He gave the man a gentlemanly bow. "I am afraid I have not been a 'professor', however, for quite some time."

Watson stared all the harder, obviously shocked. "No…"

"Such a clichéd reaction, Doctor," Moriarty purred. "I expected more from a man who has traveled with _the_ Doctor." In truth, he expected more from Holmes than denials at every turn—surely the Great Detective could do better. "I am quite certain you understand the concept of a Rift in Time and Space, and suffice to say that a link exists between the Reichenbach Falls and Cardiff. Passing between those two points has had an adverse effect on my health, but there you are."

He paused and looked hard at the doctor. "A price for everything."

Watson shivered infinitesimally and glanced over at Holmes. Moriarty needed not look in that direction to know that Holmes would not look his friend in the eye. The doctor's lips tightened as he processed this new data. "I see," he said quietly.

"Thank heavens," Moriarty said dryly. "Your friend is possessed of the most _appalling_ tendency towards denial. But that is neither here nor there. The fact, my dear Doctor, is that Time itself has frozen, and, unless I am much mistaken, history shall soon begin to occur all at once. In short, a new world."

Watson paled and seemed to be recalling some memory of which Moriarty knew nothing. "What?!"

"Your Time Lord is quite out of the picture, as well—tossed back and forth within the Cardiff Rift, I imagine." Moriarty spread his hands, smiling beatifically. "The beauty of the thing is that I am not even to blame for it, much as I might wish to take the credit."

Watson's horrified gaze returned to Holmes.

Moriarty glanced between the two again and decided that he had had enough of Holmes's sullenness. "All this tension, gentlemen, is really quite painful. Holmes, do stop sulking like a schoolboy and say something, there's a good fellow?"

"Holmes, what is he saying?" Watson pleaded. He had ostensibly contributed to the rift between the two, but his nature could not allow him to begrudge his dearest friend forever. Moriarty loved few things as much as a man's own nature working against him to fulfill Moriarty's purposes. "What have you done?"

Time throbbed between the two for a brief moment in a way that very nearly alarmed Moriarty.

But Holmes regarded Watson coolly, and his tone, when he spoke, was quite neutral. "Our host speaks the truth, Dr. Watson. I really would advise you to co-operate—any foolish bravado might result in unnecessary discomfort."

"A million devoted readers," Moriarty said dryly, "just wept—if, that is, they would ever exist at all." He was not deceived, however; Sherlock Holmes was the consummate actor, and one would be a fool to take him at his word in such a situation. "I am afraid, Doctor, that I shall have to keep you about the place, despite your friend's stubborn denials. The Great Detective avows not to care whether or not you are harmed, but considering his performance when young Miss Lestrade was in peril, I have significant doubts."

Watson stiffened at the girl's name and glared. "Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"I should imagine that she is running for her life even as we speak," Moriarty said easily, "if Moran has not yet caught up with her." He gestured dismissively. "She is a paradox and no longer your concern."

The hazel eyes gleamed with the fire that had kept its owner alive all these years. Even in his captors' hold, he managed to clench his fists. Obviously, the child had meant a great deal to more than Holmes…

Moriarty nodded languidly to his men. Showtime.

Watson's bad shoulder was gripped tightly and wrenched slowly. The man blanched, breaking out in a sweat, jaw tightening. He was strong, but Moriarty had seen the very strongest break, given time. He glanced over at Holmes, who looked positively distant, as if he had managed to withdraw into himself.

 _Very well, Holmes_. Without looking at his men, Moriarty commanded casually, "Break it."

He _saw_ Holmes's pupils refocus. "Moriarty," he said quietly, and with the most dignity he'd shown throughout their interview, "Stop."

Moriarty ran a calculating gaze over his new acquisition, as if in consideration. Nevertheless, Watson's fate had been decided long before _Holmes_ entered the room. After a long moment, waiting for the tension to stretch to the breaking point… "Do it."

There was what many would call a sickening crunch, and Watson screamed. Holmes looked genuinely ill as he cried, "No, _please_!" At last, the breaking point… and Watson's cry of sheer agony ended abruptly as the doctor blacked out from the pain. "For the love of God, no more! You win, Moriarty, _damn_ you! Let him go."

But Moriarty was done playing games. "No. They say that pain is the great teacher, and there are many lessons you must learn. Watson stays, and your co-operation shall be the guarantee of his well-being. I am through coddling you, Holmes."

The Great Detective seemed to fold in on himself, bowing his head in defeat. Moriarty did not think he had ever beheld a more beautiful sight. "Very well…" Holmes whispered. He tore his gaze away from Watson—a single glance from Moriarty found the doctor hanging limply in his men's hold—and turned away toward the shattered window, hands clasped at the small of his back.

If Moriarty was not mistaken, that was the screech of a pterodactyl in the distance.

"It is, as you say, a brand new world, sir." Holmes's voice was flat, desolate, devoid of all hope or spirit. "The next move is yours."

Moriarty glanced back briefly at Watson, scarcely daring to consider—much less believe—that he had actually won this round. "Take the good doctor to his room," he said quietly, "and have him tended to."

He turned back towards the window to drink in the sight of a beaten Sherlock Holmes—his to control, to corrupt, until all that remained of the Great Detective was a twisted parody—and smiled. He strode up to stand just behind the man and murmur near his ear, "Welcome to your new life, Sherlock Holmes."

 **To Be Continued...**

 **in Episode Eleven: The Dying Detective**

* * *

 **Sky:** Show of hands—who saw _that_ plot twist coming? Golly, I'm so excited—we have been waiting over a year to finally make this chapter live!

And now, how many Sherlockians actually figured out the title? 'Dynamics of a Point'. Some of you accurately guessed that the 'point' referred to Fixed Points, but now with the revelation of Moriarty? Does the title _Dynamics of an Asteroid_ ring a bell? ;)

Our poor Team TARDIS, tho! *hugs them all*

 **Ria:** To Whovians who were hoping to see the Master, sorry to disappoint you – and no, those two are not one and the same person in this universe! The Master may or may not turn up in later seasons, though... *casual whistle*

Oh, one more thing: after the last couple of reviews, we feel we should make it clear that this Moriarty is the original canon Moriarty, _not_ the Moriarty clone from 'Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century'! We love that Moriarty just as much as any SH22 fan, but he's not showing up for this season, either! (she hinted mysteriously...)

Stay tuned for Part 2 of the finale, _and_ for our next update, a very special behind-the-scenes minisode! Let's just say that you'll never look at 'The Empty House' the same way again...

Please review!


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